


ok then

by Anonymous



Series: ok motherfucker [1]
Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Crack, Fluff, Love, M/M, Mpreg, No Angst, Smut, hahahahaha
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-03 07:33:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 54,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24467284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: george and ringo get an unexpected surprise in their lives. parenting, fluffiness, hardship and grossness ensues.
Relationships: George Harrison/Ringo Starr
Series: ok motherfucker [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1902139
Comments: 81
Kudos: 43
Collections: anonymous





	1. 🍆

“Why do they call it a bun in the oven anyway?” Ringo said, tossing the tabloid that somehow ended up on his coffee table. 

“It’s warm in there,” George replied from the kitchen. He returned next to Ringo moments later, holding a bowl with lumps of chocolate ice cream melting in it. 

“Ooh!” Ringo said. “That looks—”

George then pulled out an eggplant.

“— good.”

George THEN pulled out a cheese grater. Ringo watched in abject horror as George calmly grated the WHOLE THING into his ice-cream, purple shavings cluttering the chocolatey goodness. He gasped loudly as George ate a scoop of it. 

“What?” George asked innocently.

“Are ye feelin okay????” 

“Sure. Ya want some?” George teased, aiming another full scoop of his bushy ice-cream at Ringo’s mouth. Ringo screeched and jumped off the sofa. 

“More for me then!” 

"Does that taste good????" Ringo said in terror. 

"No."

"Then WHY THE FUCK."

"Because I FEEL like it, Ritchie!" George threw his spoon at his head. He missed, and then stubbornly proceeded to drink the shit out of the bowl. Ringo's eyes opened to the size of very large windmills. 

"What?????" Ringo roared. "But WHY????? WHY are you eatin that if it's so gross?????????????????? Do ye need a doctor??????????????????????????????????????????"

"HOW DARE YOU!" George cried. "I'm perfectly fine, ya bastard! Just lemme eat me gross food in pe— pee— peac— peace— ohLord."

George then keeled over and was violently sick all over their sofa. Ringo got on his feet to move over, but with every step he took another wave of vomit shot out of George and into their poor velvet sofa. He froze, leaning over to set his now-empty bowl on the table. And he locked eyes with Ringo. 

"I'm gettin' you a doctor," Ringo said firmly. 

"Thanks," George nodded. He then fainted face-first into his pile of sick. 


	2. cha cha boom

Thank goodness Eppy had left a whole load of addresses before he fucked off to Barbados with his new boyfriend. And a big crate load of whiskey. Ringo chugged one down like a howling storm before piling George and his sick bucket into the passenger seat. 

“Alright, now stay calm,” Ringo said, inserting the key into the aircon slats.

“I _AM_ CALM!” George shouted. 

“I was talkin to me,” Ringo then missed a lamp post by an inch. The sick in George’s bucket flew and splattered over the entire windshield. 

Ringo shuddered. He activated the windshield wipers even though the sick was _inside_ the car. George swiftly hurled into the bucket from the smell.

“You’re gonna kill us both,” George said hoarsely. "And I'll fuckin puke on _you!"_

Ringo put one hand over his heart in offense. He then ran over a mailbox.

* * *

The receptionist perks up at the mention of Beatles. When George and Ringo stumbled in she frowned because neither of them was Paul.

"Hello birdy," Ringo said, now inexplicably sober. "We've an appointment under Eppeh."

".....what?"

"Eppehhh."

"Brian Epstein," George finished for him. He then sicked up all over the reception counter and the receptionist. 

"Aren't you the quiet one?" She asked humourlessly, flicking specks of ice-cream out of her bangs.

"Ye can see why."

The doctor appeared quickly, thank heaven and highwater. Though it took a while to realise he _was_ the doctor, changing hurriedly out of his rainbow wig and clown shoes. 

"Uh," said George.

"Oh don't worry, Beatles! It's my part time job," the doctor said sheepishly. 

George's eyes fell on the huge strap-on at the doctor's crotch.

"Uhhh."

“Hello Beatles. Half the Beatles. The name's Robert Hackerton, but I’m more well-known as the _Hack.”_

“Oh Lord,” George whispered weakly. Ringo held his hand tighter.

"Despite the moniker I am very _obviously_ a trained professional who knows what he's doing," the Hack said, putting on rubber gloves. “Now which one of you puked all over my waiting room?"

* * *

Ringo was becoming more and more confused. And worried. After telling them apart (and being disappointed that neither of them was John), the Hack laid George on the examination table (who then retched all over his strap-on) and had him recite the alphabet backwards. He then stuck the thermometer in his eye and THEN made him piss into a glass ashtray because he realised he was out of plastic cups. An hour later he had his Macca-mad receptionist bring tea and when it arrived it was tequila. Ok then.

"So," the Hack said, sipping from a ceramic bowl because I fuckin' said they were out of cups. "What's Lennon like in the flesh? He stand like that ta piss?"

"I've never seen him piss," replied Ringo. "But yeah, I think so."

"Neat. Can ya get me his autograph?"

Ringo sighed insufferably. He opened his coat and pulled out one of his signed pictures of John he carried just in case. The Hack whooped with joy and smooched it. Ringo began to feel terribly cross, but George emerged from behind the privacy curtain then, fiddling with the strings at the back of his exam gown.

"Please tell me I'm not ill," he said, despite immediately hugging his vomit-sloshy bucket. 

"Oh, me poor darlin," Ringo rubbed his back slowly. "Here, ya want some tequila?"

George took one whiff of Ringo's lab beaker of gold and sicked right into it. 

"....nevermind."

"I'm sorry."

"Hey, don't be!" Ringo tossed the barf-beaker against the door and coated it in vomit. "I'm sure it ain't a big deal! You'll be _not_ pukin in no time!"

"Actually," the Hack said as he polished his shoe, "He'll only be _not_ pukin in about nine months or so."

"...............nine months???" 

"Yesiree," the Hack said. "Congrats, you're preggers!"

A

hush

fell

over

the room.

Cha cha boom.

“Very funny!” George spat through another wave of sick. “If I'm pregnant, _where_ the fuck is it then??? I haven’t got a bloody womb!”

“That’s right,” said the Hack. “It’s in your arse.”

Ringo started laughing hysterically. 

“WHAT,” George said, glaring at Ringo. 

"Alright, it's technically somewhere _near_ your arse, Mr Harrison."

"That doesn't make any fuckin sense! Is it in my stomach??? My intestine???" George yelled. "No, _wait,_ HOW am I even—"

"There are a few ways. Have you ever done drugs?"

"No, but I was plannin to!"

The Hack _ooooh_ 'ed with his fist to his mouth in a way that made George grow even paler from all the sicking up he did. 

"But I, uh, took some Prellies when I was in Hamburg if that helps."

"Okay then. And d'you have any idea who the father is?"

Everything went silent. George looked up at Ringo. Ringo's eyes were the size of WINDMILLS WRITTEN IN ALL CAPS BECAUSE THEY ARE THAT BIG, MOTHERFUCKER. The sheer realisation of it all struck him like a— like a— like CHA CHA **BOOM.**

"Ritchie?" George said weakly, eyes blinking rapidly. "Ritchie, say somethin—"

Ringo said nothing. He barfed whiskey-tequila all over his own shoes. 

* * *

The Hack is a nice man at least, cleaning out George's bucket in his sink before sending them off. But George doesn't heave once during the trip home, staying silent and ghostly. He steps out of the car like one too, stolen exam gown floating behind him. 

"George, wait," Ringo called, wiping the puke off the windshield one-handed with a baby wipe. He suddenly stared at it, and then threw it down as he leapt from the car.

"George!" he called again, running into their flat. The door was wide open and the keyhole was thick with even more eggplant-chocolate barf. Gross. Ringo recoiled instantly, only to catch sight of George sitting on the floor, his head against the coffee table. 

Ringo slid in and put his arms around George. And then the stench hit him like a truck.

"Lordy Lordy picca _bennicoff."_

"I _know,"_ George said huskily, not lifting his face up.

"No no, it's alright! We, um, we can make it nice!"

Cha cha boom. George split himself out of Ringo's arms.

"Nice??? I'm fucking _pregnant!"_

"Well—"

"I'm a _man,_ RICHARD!" George yelled, eyes red and wet. "I'm not _supposed_ to be fuckin pregnant! And you— ye shouldn't have to fuckin deal with this. You really shouldn't."

"....what?"

Ringo wants to eat his foot. George turned away from him, pulling the hem of the gown over as much leg as he could like he's ashamed of what he's done. When it didn't work he pressed heavily on the table glass to stand up, like he already felt the weight of the baby— and so, so much more. Ringo swore his heart ripped. _George_ was the one who shouldn't have to fuckin deal with this. Not alone.

“I’m not leaving you know!” Ringo said, aghast. He stood fast and circled George, knelt and cupped his hands. “I love you!”

George looked at him, and then down at the flat terrain of his stomach.

“I love the _both_ of you,” Ringo leant over and kissed him, the gentlest he remembered in recent times. He wholeheartedly wished he'd done it more often. Why didn't he? Had he been such a fucking brute to impregnate his _boyfriend_ with his monster? He couldn't even say lovely things on his own??

Well. That would change. Lots of things would. But for now he enjoyed George's lips parting over his, ever so soft, and prayed that this was the one thing that wouldn't.


	3. dipshit.

Ringo had to admit he was rather terrified. It was just so glorious he had no idea how else he should feel. When he and George had washed and undressed and lay in bed, he looked over at him. George was awake, eyes easily half-shut, but his face was tight and scared. And Ringo suddenly felt brave. 

He placed his hand resolutely on George’s belly. The sheer warmth of it startled him.

“ ‘s yours, ain’t it?” George murmured when Ringo drew back. 

“Sorry,” Ringo breathed hard and gathered himself to lie closer. “It’s just…. It’s a _lot._ Fer you.”

“Yeah, no shit,” George closed his eyes. “Not how I pictured our family comin to life…”

Our family. OUR family. Ringo’s eyes threaten to cry. He fakes clearing his throat to pull himself together. 

George chuckled wryly at this. “Now you’ve no choice but to love me.”

“I did,” Ringo said, clamouring to hold him. “I _do!_ You don’t think I do?”

Quiet Beatles are scary good at scary silences. But this one melts along with Ringo’s heart as George smiles against his neck. “Lord, I’m teasing, ya gump.”

“Don’t be a tease ‘bout this! I love you,” Ringo kissed George’s hair. “I love you, and I _love_ you.”

“Big old sap,” George nudged his Ringo’s chin with his nose. “I love you too.”

They fell asleep peacefully, entwined around each other. Which made it so much worse when George woke Ringo by puking all over his face. 

“Ritchie?” George said like three weeks later, random timeskip _bois_ , after a massive meal of mustard on tangerines. “I don’t feel so good.”

“Oh shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit,” Ringo said to the standing lamp. He had had like five whiskeys. He cradled the thing in his arms.

“Ritchie what the FUCK,” George groaned loudly. “I’m over here!—”

Then George threw up all over himself. He threw up so much he got on his hands and knees to continue throwing up. He THREW UP, bitch. 

“Oh shit!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” Ringo yelled, snapping sober out of being drunko because this is _totally_ how it works. He knelt right in George’s vomit puddle and rubbed his back. How long he rubbed it for, idk man. He rubbed it.

"Ritchie?"

“Yeah?”

“What if….” George said, near tears. “What if I _vomited_ the baby out?”

Ringo blinked. George had now hidden his face in his hands.

“I, erm, don’t think that’s how it works.”

“BUT WHAT IF. I’ve been spewin like a geyser if ya haven’t noticed!” George paused to spin around and hurl into a wastepaper bin. He threw up for like ten minutes. 

“Georgie?” Ringo asked cautiously. “You done yet?—”

“TAKE ME TO THE FUCKING HACK!”

The Hack was sponging grease paint off of his face with a hanky when they entered. He was also wearing a dog collar. 

“Uhhhh,” said George. 

“Oh hi Beatles,” the Hack ate his hanky. “Wassup?”

“I think I vomited the baby up,” George said shakily, beginning to strip off his clothes right there in front of the desk. 

“Uhhhhhhh,” said Ringo.

“Now Mister Not-John-Lennon, that’s highly unlikely—”

“Yeah yeah, I just need to know if it’s still there,” George turned around and plopped his whole ass arse onto the desk. 

“Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh,” said the Hack. 

“FOR LORD’S SAKES MAN, IS IT THERE OR NOT????” George cried. The Hack’s Macca-maniac receptionist entered then with a dossier, took one look at them all, and shut the door. 

"Well, after that timeskip I can safely say that you are _indeed_ still pregnant," the Hack said very professionally. He began eating out of the ultrasound gel bottle with a spoon. "And once again it is very highly unlikely you'll throw it up."

"Why? Where is it then??"

The Hack said something unintelligible because his mouth was full of jelly. He offered it to Ringo, who declined. He sat down at his desk and started knitting a stocking.

"Anyway, I can definitely prescribe you some medicine to stop the barf."

George perked up. "You could?"

"Yup," He slid the reception window open. "Becky dear, can ya fetch me a bottle of _Dipshittiusdramine?"_

A huge yellow JAR was slid into the window. 

"This," he says proudly, "Is the new marvel of the pregnanant world. Take two and you'll only have one morning sick-up each day."

"That sounds amazing," Ringo said, as George was handed the bottle. 

"It is rather pricey though."

"We're Beatles," Ringo reminded him. 

"I take cheques," The Hack nodded. “And it's legal that I tell you that side effects may include drowsiness, short-term memory loss, Spiderman, mood swings, hepatitis, headaches, excessive swearing, sweating, paranoia, religious fear, increased savagery, not doing proper research and extremely enhanced sex drive—”

“I DON’T FUCKIN _CARE,”_ George yelled, and dry-swallowed the whole ass jar of pills in one gulp. He then passed out on the exam table. 

“George????” Ringo said worriededly. He hurriedly held George’s head in his hands and shook him. He looked desperately at the Hack. "WHAT THE FUCK?????"

"Don't worry he ain't dead!" The Hack said cheerily. "The tags say No Angst!"

"The _what??"_

George then sat up with a big wheeze. He bent over his own stomach as if to heave again, but nothing came out. 

"See?" the Hack said smugly. "Tell John I say hi."

Whatever was in the dipshit-meds worked. The next few days George wasn't miserably sicking up anymore. He was instead was fuckin _horny_ every morning. Ringo lost count of the times George woke him up with his moaning. The many chords he strummed weird while playin his guitar butt-ass naked. The sheer amount of places his hands travelled when they kissed. And the one morning he shoved his entire breakfast up his arsehole because Ringo wanted to sleep in. 

Ringo facepalmed. "Ya know you could've just woken me up!”

"You looked really tired," George said guiltily. A trail of wet mashed banana (he hoped) was dripping down his leg. Upon further inspection said wetness was because it was sardine oil.

"Did you want to eat that or was it so it could slide up yer—“

“Both,” George laughed, positioning a leg on either side of Ringo. He wound his arms around his neck. “And I didn’t puke. Gimme a kiss.”

* * *

Eight more weeks passed, because fuck yeah timeskip. George hauled the full-length mirror out of their closet and set it in front of the bed. 

“Be careful!” Ringo yelled as he dashed to help steady the thing. “At least lemme help you!”

“I’m just checkin really quick!”

“Why not in the toilet?”

“I gotta see all of me,” said George. He stood in front of the mirror and lifted his shirt. Ringo took one look at him and toppled over shocked onto their bed.

“Oh my god,” he gasped. “You’re showin!”

George smiled back at him. It disappeared as he returned to studying his reflection. Ringo held him from behind without missing a beat, both hands on the gentle bump that had formed.

“You look heavenly.” He whispered into George’s shoulder. “Whatsamatter?”

“Look.”

“Mm, I’m lookin.”

“No. Up here.”

Ringo looked. And he immediately blacked out.


	4. ( . ) ( . )

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> s mu t

“............................Ritchie??”

“Mister Also-Not-John-Lennon?”

“He has a fuckin _name,_ Robert!” 

George sounded oddly far away. Ringo blinked to block out the intense light shining in his eyes. Then it switched off and he was met with the guileless face of the Hack. 

“Oh, it’s you,” Ringo said disappointedly. 

“Good to have ya back Mister Bongo,” The Hack chirped. “Mister Lead Guitar was real worried ‘bout you!”

Ringo bolted upright on the exam table. George approached them both slowly, getting up from an armchair with his hair all ruffled. Ringo smiled at first, and then HIS EYES GREW TO THE SIZE OF WINDMILLS LARGER THAN THE WHOLE OF ENGLAND.

George was showing. And he was shirtless. But his chest, previously as flat as he was twelve weeks earlier, was not. And on where it had swelled into two small mounds was covered by a fuckin _bra._

Ringo felt his head hit the exam pillow. 

“Becky,” he heard the Hack say before everything went black, “Ya like jazz?”

* * *

“So,” George said when they were home, pressing Ringo to the sofa. “I’m guessing ye like these.”

“Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh,” Ringo said eloquently. “Are you still…”

George drew back just an inch and pulled down the front of his collar. His BOOBS were in the same fuckin bra that had knocked him the fuck out in the Hack’s clinic, and OH MY GOD, HE HAD A CLEAVAGE. 

“Holy shit,” said Ringo. He nearly put his hand on them, but settled George down more steadily instead. “D’you— can you— can you feel them?”

“Can _you_ feel them, more like,” George teased. “Of course I fuckin can! They’re so _sensitive!_ And they’re always so fucking…..” he pulled off his shirt and leaned in close to Ringo’s face—

_“....tingly.”_

Ringo couldn’t take it anymore. His boner sprang out of his pants. George closed the gap between their mouths and was pinned down on the sofa by the shoulders.

“Watch the baby,” he said breathlessly, lightly swatting where Ringo’s groin pressed into the bump. 

“Sorry baby,” Ringo moved himself upon his knees and smacked kiss after kiss onto every inch of George’s face, hands running down his neck. He was very nearly close to fingering his new tits when—

“Oh fuck, _no,”_ George gasped. _“Wait.”_

“What?” Ringo lifted himself off instantly. “Somethin wrong?”

“No, it’s just…” George let out a moan that absolutely didn’t help poor Ringo and the fire that was now tearing up his cock. George clasped a hand to his breast, pulling at the edge of the bra. That thing was LACY, I tell you, oh FUCKING HELL.

“Is it hurtin you?” Ringo asked, so ready to undo it if needed—

“It’s rubbing a lot, but no. I want ye to touch these so badly.”

“No shit, Sherlock. What’s wrong then?”

“If you touch these, I’ll come _way_ too quick.”

Ringo stared.

“Isn’t that…. isn’t that what ya want?”

George looked up at him. “I want you to make love to me.”

Ringo’s heart started screaming.

“I jus want you to _hold_ me,” George said, quieter. He shut his eyes like he’d gotten comfort at last. “Even when I come way too early.”

“Oh,” Ringo said, not entirely sure why his eyes were wet. But he did know about the WET in his pants. Fuuuuuuuuck. But he leant down and kissed George tenderly on the forehead, thumbs stroking his cheekbones. “Of course I will. Anythin for you.”

But then nothing happened. Haha you thought!

George fell asleep on the sofa and Ringo didn’t dare wake him. And in the night, when Ringo stripped bare and spooned George from behind he screamed blue murder. Breakfast the next day was very awkward. 

The dipshit meds continued disappearing on a regular basis, but George seemed to have worn himself out. There was no more midnight moaning or naked guitar sessions. He had even scorned the breakfast bananas, eating nothing but tea and teacakes for like fourteen days (Ringo had counted). 

Maybe it was because the body changes had gotten to George. Ringo personally loved the look of meat on his bones for once, but George seemed to hug himself more than often, like he was hiding himself away. He still let Ringo kiss him, open his arms to be cuddled, but after a while he’d clamber out of _Ringo’s_ arms and retreat into himself. And there was _more_ of himself every passing day. George sat up staring down at his ballooning bump (AND BARE BREASTS) for ages and ages when he thought Ringo was asleep.

“I’m gettin worried,” Ringo whispered to the Hack at the next check-up while George was changing into an exam gown. “He isn’t eating much.”

“Really? For how long?”

“Two and a half weeks give or take.”

The Hack paused to dust his signed photo of John, which now hung in a gold frame where Ringo swore a medical degree used to be. “What week is this again?”

"14," Ringo said expositorily.

“Is he taking his pills?”

“Yeah.”

“Are they working?”

“Well he ain’t sicking up 24/7 no more,” Ringo shrugged. “But he isn’t _eating._ He has like cups of tea and cake and that’s it.”

The Hack looked pensive. He scratched his chin, and then his neck, collar, and ribs. When his hand slipped into his trousers to scratch his ass Ringo groaned.

“Look, is this normal? Or like, a side effect?”

“Whaddaya mean?”

“George, ya git! Loss of appetite! Ye know how much he used to eat??? And he’s showin every one of them other side effects, but he's like fuckin _depressed_ and its breakin me goddamn heart—”

George opened the curtain then. Ringo and the Hack stared, jolting. 

“What?” George asked, hand tight on the gown.

“Uh,” said Ringo. “I jus—”

“He was just asking me about the side effects of _Dipshittiusdramine!”_ said the fuckin Hack, to which he delivered a friendly slap to Ringo’s back. “Now let’s get you in there, shall we?”

* * *

Sonogram. Just a little over a decade old and a marvellous piece of shit. Ringo’s gripped with some kind of wonder too wondrous for words when he sees it, their clearest one yet. Whatever was in George had FINGERS. And FEET. 

“And the strongest heartbeat I ever gosh darn seen,” the Hack said in a terrible Texan accent.

Ringo looked over at George, who was strangely silent apart from answering routine questions. And he looked so drained— as if something deep down was bothering him. And it had fingers, feet and way too strong a heartbeat to not live. Ringo felt extraordinarily guilty then, tearing his eyes away from the swells of George in the thin gown. 

“Is it a girl or a boy?” George asked suddenly. 

“Doesn’t wanna show us yet,” the Hack now had on a cowboy hat. “Ya thinkin names already?”

Actually, he wasn’t. Instead of going to bed after, George pushed box after box out of the spare room in the flat. 

“C’mon, let me,” Ringo scolded cheekily. George left him the box on the floor and went back in for another. 

“Oh Geo, no—”

“It’ll need somewhere to sleep,” George said, lugging a trunk that was definitely heavier than it looked. “I was thinkin we paint it.”

Ringo gave a sigh and rushed to take it. “I can paint.”

“It’s ours,” he said, and stopped Ringo right in his tracks. “And I’m not helpless.”

“Painting’s a tough job.”

“Carrying _this_ is harder,” George was now cold. “You wanna switch?”

Ringo shut up. But still he made sure George never lifted anything heavier than he did, and that he’d set up a nest of sofa cushions nearby. When it was cleared and everything in it before was lined up in the hallway, Ringo flopped down on the dusty floor with a thick thump. George pushed himself up then, arms over his chest, and walked to the door.

Ringo rolled over. “Where’re you goin?” 

No reply. A long while passed, and when Ringo’s bones stopped aching he went to check in the sofa. The kitchen. And then in their bedroom, where George was propped on sofa cushions, looking at a paint catalogue and munching a slice of teacake on the comforter. And his tits were out. 

Ringo’s jaw dropped to the floor.

 _“What in the name of the LORD,”_ George shrieked when he heard the crash. He lobbed the teacake at Ringo and scrambled clumsily to hide himself under the comforter. “Fucking knock!”

“Sorry fer bein _worried!”_ Ringo shut the door behind him and George seemed to draw away. “The fuck’s wrong with you???” 

Ringo then wanted to eat BOTH his feet. Before they left the Hack had pulled him aside and bopped him on the head with a wet ashtray. 

_“Oww!”_

_“Whatever ya do son,”_ The Hack warned, _“Be_ nice _to him.”_

_“Waitaminute, didn’t Geo pee in that?—”_

“Oh my god. I’m sorry,” Ringo said presently like a big idiot. “I’m sorry luv, there’s nothin wrong with you—”

“I’m a pregnant _bloke,”_ George shot back. “Ya sure bout that?”

“Uh.”

“And stop staring at me tits, _Richard!”_

“I thought—" Ringo met his eyes "—but I thought ya liked those!”

“They’d be hell more fun if they weren’t so _sore,”_ George groaned, not noticing that the comforter had slipped down his chest. Ringo thought of John pissing on Paul to kill his erection. 

“Well, is there somethin ya want me to do??” said Ringo. What on earth had happened to wanting to love each other all night?? Fuckin shit. But that could wait. All he wanted right now was for George to not kill himself yelling. 

“You help me paint the room,” George said, brushing crumbs off his bump. Ringo looked at it and felt his legs turn to mush. He fell nose-first to the floor. 

“What the fuck, ye don’t have to kneel,” but then he heard a chuckle. “You can pick the colour.”

* * *

Ringo took the first can of paint he saw, somewhere between red and purple. See, it’s symbolism. 

“Aren’t you that drummer boy,” the old salesman at the counter remarked, adjusting his glassy specs. “From that business suit band?”

“No, that’s me twin,” said Ringo. “Tenner?”

“Aye, you can get another fer that money.”

Ringo had no idea how George was the Quiet One, for the ruckus he made back in the car when he went to tell him that he should come in and pick a colour.

“Are you FUCKING SERIOUS,” George screeched, clutching his bump oddly like to see if he could remove it from his belly. “I CAN’T BE SEEN LIKE THIS!”

“The only person in there’s a blind fossil who don’t remember Ed Sullivan!”

 _“Everyone_ remembers Ed Sullivan you cunt!”

“Okay, okay, sorry! Jeez! Just tell me what colour you want.”

“Pick whatever’s nice. I don’t give a damn. ”

“Oh my fucking _GOD_ , George—“

At home, Ringo cracked open a cold one with his nose and drank it. He'd returned the red-purple for red and purple separately so that George would have no valid reason to kick his arse. He had complained of a headache and lay swearing softly in his sleep. Ringo had suggested he move to the bed, but George just told him to _eat penguin shit, you ass spelunker_ before he passed the fuck out in the cushion nest. How was that even comfy?? Pregnancy made you weird.

For the first time ever, Ringo thought about sucking it in and phoning John for help. Or Cyn. He was leaning towards dear old Cynnie, but he was sure she'd be grossed out. And tell her husband. Who would show up at their flat personally and bust his guts laughing at them. He couldn't bear the thought of George being on the other end of it. 

Think of something else, whatever it is. Ringo's mind wanders, and their baby is a girl. He thinks of his childhood photo come to life, only with big brown eyes and longer hair and scrappy knees under a skirt. And what if it was a boy?? He thinks about a clone of George, though maybe with his own big nose, running circles around them with even more banged up knees and ~~teeth~~ FANGS sharp enough to eat a cat. He thinks about the girl again, bouncing on his lap, but now she has blue eyes and has sunken her chompers into his arm. Then the boy again, tearing it up on the drums onstage. This time he can't tell who he looks like more from where he's sitting in that audience, but next to him is George, an older man, wildly cheering for their son.

And then he choked on his whiskey. George was actually next to him.

"It's just me," he said. 

"Ye wanna go to bed now?" The sun had set ages ago. 

But George looked at him oddly. Then Ringo realized the fuckin paint rollers in his hands. 

"Geo.... it's late....."

"You said you'd fuckin help me."

Ringo left with the excuse to get newspapers for the floor. He stripped off his shirt when he returned. 

"Uh," he said as George simply rolled up the already short sleeves of his jersey, "D'you want me to find a smock?"

"It wouldn't fit," George stuck the roller in a tray of purple, and that was the end of that. He painted a few stripes in the middle before he plopped back down on the newspaper, sweating all around his fringe, so Ringo made a run to fetch water. He smoothed over patches in the purple before he turned to check on George, and ended up staring blatantly at a slipped bra strap. Then he snapped himself out of it, thinking of that grown up drummer kid on that stage. 

And he leaned in to rest his head on George's shoulder. George startled at this, but didn't move away. 

It was a moment before Ringo spoke. “I miss ya, luv,” he said, bracing himself. He wasn’t sure what for, but he's doing it, dammit. "I'm sorry I yelled."

George considered this. "I yelled at you too."

"I yelled first."

There was a long pause, which Ringo would really rather not have, but now George seemed to be relaxing against him. It was nice.

"Ritchie."

"Yeah?"

George pressed a kiss to his nose. It couldn't last because of the awkward angle of their heads, but it was a _kiss._ Ringo felt his eyes widen to— uh— 

"Uhhhhh."

George drew away from him like a flash. 

_"NooooooOOOOOOOOO,"_ Ringo said uselessly. His heart was melting at rapid speed. He moved closer. "Luvie, I _really_ miss you. It's just—"

"I have the body of a fuckin bird," George finished for him. Ringo stared.

"You— you do?" he said. 

"Everyday I wake up and check if me cock's still there. Sometimes I can't even see it on first glance." George said in such a deadpan way that Ringo fought not to laugh. "And then I get sick."

RINGO'S HEART SANK. OH. 

“......is it still there though?” he asked. 

George nodded solemnly.

"Is it painful?" Ringo asked while biting his tongue. "Even after you take the pills?"

George shook his head. But he still looked away. Ringo took his hands.

"You know I'm in this with you forever, don’t you?"

"Forever?"

"And even after that," Ringo nodded earnestly. He thinks of the three of them, Baby swaddled in a beautiful nursery, and he nods again.

"I did like them at first," George said, looking down. Ringo followed suit, and for a moment thought this meant they were having _twins._ Oh god. But then George pulled out of his arms. AND THEN HE TOOK OFF HIS JERSEY. Pray for Ringo 2020. 

Anyway, 

Ringo's simp ass put two and two together as he stared again. George's chest had grown alright. There wasn't any lace on _this_ bra, but the rounded tops of his tits were out. Holy f u c k 

"Oh my _god."_

"They just...." George made a flying-out motion with his fists closing and opening ".....exploded. Along with the rest... it just _changed,_ Ritchie."

“Of course it changed, our kid's in there.”

“It changes so _fast,”_ George rubbed the underside of his bump with the flat of his palm. "I thought it'd take longer. Remember its feet?"

"And fingers."

"Yeah? And it's just— I love them. I really do, but they're scaring the _fuck_ outta me with what they're doing to me body. When I woke up that day ye passed out I got a terrible pain in my hips, like. I thought they were breaking. I limped to bed and then it was in me stomach, then me boobies were like on _fire_ or somethin. I just got so scared..."

Ringo's heart sank deeper than the Titanic after kissing that iceberg. 

"Then you crawled in. And I got so embarrassed I wanted to die," George's voice stopped with a break in it that I the author have no words for. "I didn't know how to tell you. You would've wanted to help, but I didn't know _how_ I could be helped. But it's gone away now..."

Nothing happened for a moment. A little summer wind rustles the leaves outside and the newspaper under their butts crinkle with movement, but you get the idea. Ringo's hands hovered over George and his crossed legs and all the bits spilling out over said crossed legs, and feels that lodged something dissolve in his throat. 

"Geo?”

George looked up. If Ringo had the bluest eyes in the world, George had the best ones, still looking twinkly and gorgeous despite it all. Ringo leant forward, cupped his face and kissed him lightly on the forehead. NOTHING in this godforsaken world would ever live up to the little sigh George released, tickling his neck. 

And _then_ he laid his hand on George's breast. ~~The world fucking exploded~~ George gave out such a mewl that it could've made _Ringo_ the one who came too fast. Even more so as George swept up against him in a kiss to his mouth, trying to kneel as his belly lurched awkwardly. 

"Ohhh, Lord."

"Here," Ringo took him by the hips as carefully as he could and stretched out his legs. "Try sittin on me—"

The weight on his thighs made Ringo bite himself in the nose. Anatomically impossible but here _you_ are reading an mpreg fic. ANYWAY, he fuckin revelled in it. He latched onto George's throat, kissing it harder now, licking it, and George was already the most quivering of messes. He shakily guided Ringo's hand to his back, where he unclasped the hook and flung it out the open window. 

"Christ, you're beautiful," Ringo said with worship as he ran his RINGED FINGERS over George's EXTREMELY HARD NIPPLES. Yesiree. I'm sincerely so sorry for this. George responded with another rambled gasp into mouth, and came with the force of somethin _forceful_ onto Ringo's legs. This was maybe the bestest thing ever, and Ringo hadn't even popped his—

“Wait," he said, pulling away from George's kiss.

"W—wh—what."

"What if I poked the baby????”

_“..............what?”_

“What if it IS in yer arse.”

George looked down at his distended stomach. And the way they were positioned. 

“Oh, never mind,” said Ringo. 

Then George cracked up laughing, _really_ laughing. Ringo chuckled, feeling his heart float right back up. They looked at each other when they stopped and it was too beautiful for words. Again. Because that speaks for itself. 

Then The Quiet Beatle Breaks the Silence. “You’d better c’mere now,” he whispered. “One day I’m gonna be too big to cuddle.”

So Ringo leapt back on him with another kiss. Then _he_ came, paint got on their faces, newsprint got imprinted into their arses, George's tits were squeezed, and the whole soon-to-be nursery was a concert of _I love you I love you I L O V E Y O U oHHHh god._

"And that goes for you, too," Ringo bent and kissed the bump when George lay on his back. "Drummerboy."

"What?" George said sleepily.

"Sleep well!"


	5. where did you get that

Sunlight shined into the room and sent George’s foot into the tray of purple paint. Ringo rolled over and went face-first into the newly dried wall. Groaning, he rolled over again and again until he smashed face-first into something squishy. 

_“Ohhhh,_ fuck,” George moaned.

“Shit!” Ringo snapped awake and sat up. He put his purple-stained hand to the bump. “Did I hit Baby?”

 _“No,_ but ye made me come, bastard,” George groaned, cradling his poor tits. “Do it again.”

“...wot.”

“Do it again,” George said breathily, mouth turned up in a grin. He shoved himself to sit up and cupped each breast in the palm of his hand enticingly.

Ringo’s brain melted into

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“UhhHHHH.”

“C’mon,” George scooted nearer. “They’re still so _hard.”_

Ringo's boner remerged. He dunked his fuckin head into George’s cleavage and instantaneously sent him wailing in pleasure. Ringo licked, sucked, kissed every inch of skin he found, his hands on either side of the baby bump and—

DING DONG, THE DOORBELL RANG. 

George jolted so quickly that his nipple ended up in Ringo’s mouth. He came so hard and loud they could barely hear anything else clearly. Maybe it had been a dream. Dream orgasm or somethin. It was so good they started fuckin hearing things. 

But then: 

_“Georgie,”_ John shouted. And then he started pounding on the door. _“Ritchie??????”_

“Jesus John, be quiet,” Paul’s voice followed. “Maybe they’re still sleepin!”

“Ohmigod,” Ringo hissed, erection dying.

“Oh _no,”_ George panted, his face soaked in sweat and paint. “I forgot all about those two!”

Ringo’s mind was a blank. He helped George stand.

“What d’we do???” Ringo asked George. He looked at Baby Bump. “Unless— unless you wanna tell them?”

George's eyes went wide. _"Fuck_ no."

Ringo’s heart went boom in his chest, picturing John AND Paul pissing on them both. And laughing. But mostly because how tightly George was now cradling his bump, streaked with purple paint and newsprint and fear. 

“Okay,” Ringo kissed him quickly. “Just do what you gotta do. I’ll shout for ya when they go.”

Ringo took his time getting dressed even after George had fled to their bedroom and bolted the door. John was now steadily knocking on their front door, fast then slow, pretending he was the mail or milkman. Paul’s sighs were growing aplenty. 

“Paper for Harrison-Starkeys!” John called. “Extra extra, these bitches _gayyyyyyyy!!!!!!!!”_

“John! Seriously!” Paul shushed. “Maybe they ain’t even home, y'know.”

Ringo opened the door an inch.

“Oh hi Ringo!” Paul said enthusiastically. “Did we wake you?”

“Bout time, git,” John called.

“Sorry,” Ringo said as calmly as he could. He opened the door fully and nearly fell the fuck over. Because in John’s arms sat a very wide-eyed _Julian._ He reached out for his nose.

“Unca Ringo!” 

~~Oh, shit.~~ “Hey laddie,” Ringo cooed, shaking his starfish hand. “What’re you doin here?”

“Mummy got a tummy bug,” John pouted, “So he’s mine today, aren’tcha?”

Julian giggled. He kicked at the paper bag hanging off John’s fingers, and THEN noticed a similar one in Paul’s. 

“We eat breakkie,” Julian announced. 

“Tha’s right,” Paul held up his bag. “We missed you! Haven’t seen y’all in like 14 weeks! High time, ain’t it?”

“Oh, yeah,” Ringo chuckled nervously. “High time.”

“Geo! Guess who's here!” John yelled as he pushed past Ringo into the flat. Ringo willed himself to please not have a heart attack. “Shout fer Uncle Georgie, Jules!”

“UNCA! _UNCA!”_

Paul peered into the kitchen, poking his head around for George. He looked puzzled to find it empty. 

“No, _don’t_ shout fer Uncle Georgie!” said Ringo. “He’s, er, sick. And in bed.”

“Aww, that poor lad,” said Paul. Then he made his way to their bedroom. “The heat must be gettin’ to him—”

Ringo threw himself across the hall and tackled Paul to the floor.

“Owwww!"

“What the hell?” John said, putting Julian down and rushing over.

“Sorry Paulie, he said he don’t wanna see _nobody._ He’s feelin awful. Really awful. _Terrible.”_

“What, again?” said Paul, trying to push Ringo off. “He just got over strep throat!”

“14 weeks ago. It's a long time, Macca,” John pointed out. “Still. That poor fu— I mean, poor Unca Georgie, right Jules?”

“I’m hungry,” said Julian. 

Paul sighed as Ringo got off of him, fixing his fringe. Ringo noticed him staring at the curious purple footprints ending just outside the door, and quickly took his arm. 

“What’s with that?” Paul asked. 

“Thought we’d paint the room,” Ringo nodded, steering him away. “Change of view.”

* * *

Breakfast was like forever. Maybe it had only been fifteen minutes, but every moment Ringo felt like the flat would explode. And why oh WHY did John have to bring Julian????? Ringo adored him really, make no mistake, but now his presence was just making him fuckin nervous. 

"Is that jam or yer paint," Paul motioned to a spot on Ringo's chin. Ringo leaned in closer. 

"Paint," Paul deduced, and then laughed. "Jesus Ritchie, you kissin that wall?"

"Oh, yeah."

"Why?" Julian asked, a milk moustache on his lip. 

"Cause I _love_ that wall."

"Ahh, Jules. All grown up. Ye sure George don't wanna see nobody?" John said, wiping Julian's mouth with his sleeve. "That don't sound like him."

"He's, uh, throwin up alot."

"Ughh. Cyn too. She had to go to the doctor." 

"Oh, is she pregnant?" Ringo said without thinking.

John stopped and stared. Paul chuckled as he spread jam on his croissant. Julian stole John's toast right off his plate. Ringo felt like he'd been socked in the mouth. 

"God, I _hope_ not. Don't jinx it," John said curtly. "We're careful now."

"I was kiddin," Ringo said, hands together.

"This one's all I need," John ruffled Julian's hair in a happy rush, but then drew back with a tired grunt. "Jesus Christ."

Ringo gulped and tried to be cool. He smiled at Jules as he reached for the butter and _then_ noticed the yellow jar of dipshit next to it. 

OH FUCK. 

"Ye got all yer stuff out," John remarked at the boxes in the hall. 

"We're paintin, I said," Ringo snatched up the jar and shoved it down his boxers. "Now I gotta take a piss."

"Me too!" Julian said, clambering out of his chair. "Where's loo?"

"Ye got any of Eppy's whiskey?" Paul asked. 

"Sink cabinet, bottom right," Ringo said, taking Julian's hand. He led him to the spare bathroom and turned on the light. "Here ya go, lad."

"Unca Ringo?"

"Yeah?"

"Is Unca Geo the wall?"

"......................................wot?"

Julian stuck out his tongue and shut the bathroom door on him. Ringo snorted. He dashed down the hall to their bedroom like a ninja, pressing his ear to the door. It was deadly quiet. He put his hand on the handle.

"Hey Ritch, you're out of butter," John's footsteps were coming behind him. 

"George!" Ringo hissed, cranking the door handle rapidly. _"GEO, THE DIPSHIT!"_

He placed the jar on the floor and stood in front of it, hands on his hips as John turned the corner with a butterknife. 

"Oh hi Johnny, I didn't know it was you."

John stared at him suspiciously. Or maybe it was because he was as blind as blind. "Uh, okay," John said. "Paul got 'is fat head stuck under yer sink by the way."

"Oh, no," Ringo said with extra commas because fuck you. He ran up to John and ushered him from the hall. "We gotta pull him out!"

Then behind them the bedroom door opened a fraction. A pale hand stuck out and grabbed the dipshit. John squinted. 

"George??"

The door slammed shut.

"Anyway," John turned around, instantly forgetting. "I phoned Eppy about Cyn's stomach bug, and he told me I should send her to some quack called—"

Ringo mind wandered. He kept his eye on the bedroom door, heart beating like an epic drum solo. How could've he not checked where the dipshit was? How long had George been sicking up all over himself?? Why was Ringo such a mess??? He looked at John, proudly remarking how Julian had recently learned to go pee all by himself, wasn't he such a big boy now, buttering more toast and tearing off the crusts for him. _That_ was a dad. John dislodged a bottle of whiskey before he dislodged Paul, and even then he poured one tiny glass for himself. 

Ringo suddenly felt like crying. Julian ran out of the bathroom and pounced on their sofa. Paul siddled next to Ringo, cursing silently while massaging his poor head. 

“Daddy!” Julian suddenly piped up. “Lookit this!”

“Not now Julesy, Daddy’s busy.”

“Unca Paul! Lookit this!”

Paul spun around along with Ringo. Julian was holding up a black _bra._

Paul gasped. “JULES! WHERE DID YOU GET THAT??”

“Under sofa!” Julian said, pulling it on his head. “Look Daddy, I’m Mickey Mouse!”

John turned around at last. And squinted. 

“Ritchie, why is _that_ in yer sofa—” 

“Oh, Christ,” Ringo opened his hands. “Jules, _please_ gimme that.”

“But it’s so soft!!!”

John, who had just realised what was on his son’s head, started laughing hysterically. He laughed so hard he fell to the ground howling.

“I’ll give you sweets if you gimme that!” Ringo said desperately.

“Mummy said no sweets.”

“I’ll let you have a go on me drums!” 

“Okay!” Julian whipped the bra off his head and threw it at Paul’s face. John now kicked the air and cried with his laughs.

"Richard.............." Paul said dangerously, peeling the cup from his mouth, "What, the, fuck."

Ringo whipped around to see if Julian had heard. He was now trying to help his dad up, laughing along with him. 

"Richard fuckin' Starkey............................. if you're _cheatin_ on Geo," Paul warned. "I swear to _God_ that I'll—"

"That's mine," Ringo said immediately, snatching the bra back. It was _so_ soft, holy shit! Paul's eyes widened to the size of whatever's bigger than Paul's eyes because have you seen the eyes of that man???? Take your pick. Leave me reviews.

 _"What?"_ He hissed, eyeing a still-down John. Julian was now lying on his chest. And John was ruffling his hair, still giggly. "You?? _Really??"_

"Me alright! Sometimes we like to spice things up, so I put this on with a huge strap-on and cover me arse with whip cream and mushroom—"

"Oh sweet _Jesus,_ spare me," Paul said tiredly, but he can't stop the chuckle that leaves his lips. "Okay, but that's me lil brother you're talkin bout. I've seen it once, I've seen it all."

Ringo let out a sigh of relief.

"Unca Ringo!" Julian called. "Can I play drums now?"

* * *

After watching the Lennons-McCartney get into their car from the balcony, Ringo nearly smashed the damn bedroom door down. He half expected that he'd have to grab the key and the phone to scream emergency at the Hack, but when George opened the door he was smiling. He was scrubbed clean. He smelled like fresh earthly soap and was in clothes that hung loosely over all the bumps of him. 

In short, he was positively _radiant._ Ringo suddenly couldn't stop blinking. 

"Whatsamatter?" George poked his head to look behind Ringo. "Haven't they left?"

"I— yeah they left, I just... wow." Ringo opened his arms to George. "You just look like _wow."_

George laughed a bit. "This took a while to be all wow.... I'd thought the dipshit was in me drawer."

"Are you okay?" Ringo put his arms around him. "I'm sorry I didn't check. I'm so, so sorry—"

"I'm _fine,_ ya ding-dong. I threw up only twice." George kissed the top Ringo's head, and lingered there for a long moment. "How's Jules?"

"Just like John. How much did ya hear?"

"Well, I hope Cynnie gets better soon. And thanks for coverin me," he laughed. "Fabulous job. Even if Macca thinks we use strap-ons now."

Ringo rolled his eyes. "I panicked, okay."

"Mmm." George tilted Ringo's face upwards and kissed him gratefully. When the sun set that day it was still the brightest sunset ever. 


	6. ringo and little red

The Hack phoned their flat a timeskip of two Monday mornings later. 

“IT’S 4AM,” Ringo shouted into the receiver. 

“Oooh, sorry,” said the Hack. “I forgot time zones existed.”

“What. Where’re you?”

“My part time job in Australia.”

Ringo then heard a very odd whir of machinery in the background. And the screams of women. And goats bleating. And an explosion going off in distance.

“oKAY THEN…..” he said, wishing he’d put on some clothes. “What is it?”

“Just a reminder that George’s next appointment is on Friday at three. Check in at two-fifty. Alright?”

“Right, got it.”

“Splendid. Seeya then, I’ve got to—”

“I, um, hope ya don’t mind, Doctor Hack,” Ringo interrupted. “But what exactly is yer part time job?”

There was s i l e n c e. Then the Hack hung up. 

On Monday afternoon George dug through the closet, finding everything from coats to caps and candy corn _except_ for a wearable pair of trousers. He cursed under his breath. He’d given up Eppy’s whiskey and smoking for Baby, and if he had to fuckin give up _trousers_ , he swore he’d shove the candy corn up his arsehole. He plopped back on the bed and lay like a beached whale. 

Then the phone rang in the living room. He waited for Ringo to get it, but when it kept ringing he remembered that Ringo had gone shopping for food. He groaned as he hefted himself back up and all the way out there to pick it up.

“Whaddon Wine Store.”

“Good day!” said Paul, freezing George. “I’d like a million jugs of yer finest Pinot.”

“Uh.”

“Georgie, mate!” Paul chuckled. “Been ages! You doin alright?”

“W—what?”

“You were awfully sick when John and Jules and I dropped by!”

“Ahh,” George then faked the best coughs he could. “Yeah. Still am.”

“Oh, that’s fuckin terrible!” said Paul. “I’ll be right over and I’ll bring heaps of chocolate—”

 _“No!_ Don’t,” George nearly yelled. “I’m contagious!”

“What??? What is it?”

“Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. Bronchitis?”

“You’ve had bronchitis for two weeks???? Fuckin’ hell. How’s about Jane and I make you soup and send it over—”

“Sounds gear okay bye,” George said before he slammed the phone right down. Ringo returned right then, arms full of paper bags. 

“Who was that?”

“Paul. He’s comin over,” George pulled the hem of his tee over his underpants, which were now doing a shit job of being pants to his unders. “I told him I had bronchitis, so when he comes you gotta play that up and make him leave.”

“What, he’s comin over _now?_ ”

“I dunno!” George panicked, waddling back into the room. “He might come with Jane. Just make ‘em leave!”

About two hours later George pressed his ear to the bedroom door and heard, thankfully, only Paul on the other end of it. And then footsteps. He wondered if he should lay in bed and surround himself with cushions should Ringo be unable to stop him coming in. But after a bit everything was silent, and Ringo called to be let in. 

He had a tray with a bowl of brown soup and a bouquet of purple hydrangeas. Attached was a card signed GET WELL SOON LOVE PAUL & JANEY with hearts doodled on the margin and a doodle of George’s face at the bottom. 

“Fuckin Mac,” George said, and felt a prickle in his eye. “How is he?”

“Worried bout you,” Ringo patted his shoulder. He set the tray carefully on the side table and kissed George’s temple. “He said drink it while it’s hot.”

George made to sit up, and as he rested his back on the pillow, the unmistakable happened. From inside he felt a stir, and the solid brush of something. Then again. His breath hitched and his hands flew to cup his belly.

“Luv?” Ringo asked worriedly, spoon full of soup. “Are you hurting?”

George’s mind raced. He kept his hands firmly on his stomach, and there it was again. 

“What’s goin on?” Ringo said, pitch rising. He dropped the spoon back in the bowl. “Should I get hot water? The car keys? Phone the Hack???—”

“No, Ritchie,” George looked up at him, enraptured. “It’s _kickin.”_

* * *

Paul’s soup sat growing tepid on the table as Ringo leapt on the bed and put his head and hands to George’s bump. 

“Hello???” He whispered excitedly, rubbing the sides. “Anyone home?”

“Obviously,” George teased. 

“Babyyyyyy,” Ringo cooed, rubbing lower. “It’s Dada. Yer _other_ dada.”

When nothing happened after a bit, George leaned himself over and out to help himself to a spoonful of soup. It was bitter and herby. The baby promptly kicked him for it. 

“Eugh,” he groaned. He grabbed Ringo’s hand and laid it flat on his belly once more. AND YET, NOTHING HAPPENED. 

“You son of a—” George cursed, shovelling down another sip of Paul’s shitty soup. Ringo gave him a strange look, but kept his hand there. Then the whole bowl was gone and Baby hadn’t kicked again. George was now pink in the face. As terrible as it was, Paul’s soup had warmed his belly, and it came in flushes. Ringo hummed to himself, drumming gently on his skin with a finger. 

“It kicked when I drank it,” George explained. “Is there more?”

“More?” Ringo chuckled. “Now don’t you be hurtin yerself.”

“I know, but you gotta feel it,” George said, holding onto Ringo’s palm. “Maybe you gotta come closer.”

“Don’t mind if I do!”

Timeskips. Hours. All things must pass. Soup bowl empty and hydrangeas on the bed. Ringo sat in between George’s legs with his hands up his tee, on the sides that George had indicated were kick-zone. And then Ringo’s smile started to fade, and George’s back started to cramp. 

“Oh, well, there’s next time,” Ringo chuckled as he removed his hands. “I better make dinner now.”

As he stood up he pecked George on the cheek. He had taken the tray and was halfway down the hall when George _then_ felt a distinct twinge in his stomach. 

_“Fuck.”_

Some more days passed. Ringo was hung up on the fact that Baby had kicked only when he wasn’t there to feel it. He started placing his hand on George’s stomach more often. When they ate, in the car, in bed, in each other, and on Thursday night he jumped in the tub fully-clothed when George yelled that it was there again. Ringo put his hands so eagerly on the bump and shook so much all the water immediately splashed out onto the floor. And then Baby went back to sleep. 

Ringo stared down for a moment before he looked up at George frustratedly. 

“I’m not lying,” George whispered, gripping the edges of the tub. “It really moved.”

“I believe you,” Ringo said with a smile, though after he scrambled out the tub George heard him break open another whiskey in the living room. And then him crying. 

“So,” the Hack said on Friday as he searched for the ultrasound gel, “It’s kicking, but you can’t feel it.”

Ringo nodded, collapsing in the armchair and with a bedpan of tequila on his lap. George was in the loo. “I don’t understand. It only seems to kick fer him.”

“Well, he’s carrying it.”

Ringo chuckled feebly at this. “But it won’t when I’m around,” he said.

The Hack tossed another jar of peanut butter onto the desk before spinning around and seeing tears streaming down Ringo’s cheeks. He offered him his hanky, on which Ringo noticed John’s embroidered face before he blew his nose into it. The Hack sat on the armrest and patted his shoulder.

“There there, it’s alright. Maybe they just aren’t ready yet—”

“But I’m their other dad!” 

“—or you’ve just been unlucky,” The Hack finished gingerly. “Wrong time, yeah? Sorry.”

“It’s fine. But I’m not unlucky,” Ringo said, thinking of the whirlwind the past three years had been. Hamburg and the drinks and the best twinkly eyes he’d ever seen. Sharp teeth beneath the softest lips he’d ever kissed. And somehow this made him cry even more tears, but they were _happy_ ones, you sad sack son of a bitch. Anyway, 

“Love’s beautiful ain’t it?” The Hack smiled. 

Ringo wiped his cheeks quickly. “Sorry bout the mess.” 

“Eh. I’ve got loads,” the Hack walked back to his cabinet and resumed pulling out jars one by one. “Say.”

“Yeah?”

“I get that its none of my business,” the Hack studied a jar of live bees. “But do Lennon-McCartney know bout Baby Beatle?”

Ringo shat himself. “.....no.”

“Yer parents?”

“.........no.”

The Hack blinked. “Mister Cheekbones’ parents?”

“.........................................uh.”

“Oh my god.”

“We _plan_ to tell them,” Ringo lied, and shuddered like a guilty little bitch. John would laugh. Paul would freeze. Elsie and Harry would glare in shock. Harold might faint, and Louise might smack him. He broke into a cold sweat. George entered the room then, face flushed. Ringo and the Hack stared at him. 

“What?” George asked.

“Uh,” said Ringo. “I jus—”

“Australia was very nice, yes!” The Hack said loudly, unearthing a bottle of what was either mayo or thick semen. “The goats were fantastic!”

To God’s thanks, George merely raised his monobrow at them. Why oh WHY did the Hack have to put that thought back in Ringo’s mind?? Or should he have thought about it _sooner???_ Ringo remembered Paul bouncing worriedly on their step, a tin pot in both hands and flowers under his arm. John laughing madly at George’s bra on Jules’ head. A flustered Harry walking into his room when he was fourteen with a written script of notes and a box of condoms. Oh fuck. 

AND GEORGE. He’d baulked so hard at the thought of even his _oldest_ mate coming over with soup. There was no telling what he even thought about his own _parents_ finding out. Ringo could barely stand up after the appointment was over, downing the rest of his bedpan in a big swig. 

They’d have to discuss it soon. 

Real soon. Or surely it would bother George as much as it bothered him.

* * *

On Sunday night George felt his heart in his throat as he spun the rotary for the Lennons, rehearsing what to say should anyone other than her pick up. He’d tell Julian hi and to fetch his mum please, and hang the fuck up if it was John. The other end clicked.

“Hello?” came a sweet voice. 

“Cynnie,” George breathed in relief. “It’s Geo.”

“Oh hi George! Are you alright? Jules wouldn’t stop nattering bout how ill you were, but then John said you were faking. Either way I thought of sending down a soup.”

“Paul sent me some,” George shuddered. “And I’m still sick,” George blew his nose noisily. “But enough bout that. I’ve got a question fer you.”

“You do?” she questioned. “Well, alright… that’s a first.”

“Cyn, what I’m bout to ask may sound weird, but I _really_ need ye to not judge me and keep it between us, alright?”

She chuckled. “Why would I judge you?”

“Because it’s… uh… just listen, please.”

“Take your time! I’m listenin.”

“Okay then. Did it hurt giving birth to Julian?”

There was a pause on the line. 

“....pardon?” Cyn asked. “I could’ve sworn you asked me if giving _birth_ was—”

“Yes actually,” George coughed at the sudden heat in his chest. “How was it?”

Cyn went silent again. George scratched his neck anxiously. For all he knew she could’ve dropped the receiver and run straight to John yell-whispering that his bandmate was being a fuckin perv. 

“It _was_ rather painful,” Cyn’s voice came back on so suddenly George nearly yelped. “I did a natural delivery, y’see.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s where, um,” Cyn sounded very strained. “The baby comes out of its mother from down _there.”_

“........................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................what.”

“It comes out from down….. _there.”_ Now Cyn sounded like she was trying not to laugh. “The midwife looks in between there and helps deliver the baby while the mother pushes—”

“Wait. The WHOLE baby?”

“Yes, of course the whole baby!”

“But that’s fuckin _huge.”_

“Um, _yes,”_ Cyn said amusedly, but then she lowered her voice. “George, what’s wrong? You sound so frightened. Did you knock a girl up?—”

For the second time in barely a week George slammed the phone down in a panic. What the fuck was he even doing???? He should've thought this through. Now Cyn was going to think he was a cheating bastard, and yet somehow he found it much more bearable than her finding out about the little thing growing steadily in his belly. The weight of his fuckin secrecy had gotten even more heavy than the kid itself. He suspected that the weight on his heart was added cause to his heartburn. And it had gotten even more insanely hot. Now his stomach hurt. His back hurt even more. Yesterday he wrapped himself up thickly to go for a breather on the roof and barely made it back on his aching feet. George crawled into bed and closed himself in there until Ringo came in. He was either drunk or scared shitless. He stared at George for a full minute before he spoke:

“I thought you were asleep.”

“Bug’s keeping me up.”

“Why were you askin Cyn about giving birth?”

George felt the heat flare through his entire body. Ringo looked terrified. “Why were _you_ spyin on me?”

“I wasn’t. I was plannin to call me mum,” Ringo said, uncharacteristically deadpan. “I just picked up the phone and heard Missus Lenny say somethin about the baby coming out from down there.”

“Figured I should know,” George said calmly. The heat reached his face and the heat was embarrassment. “So we find a… less painful way to do it.”

Ringo looked confused. Or maybe it was just drunkenness. He got in bed and sat next to George.

“I made her swear not to tell a soul," said George.

“You did?” Ringo was surprised. “You told her you were—”

“Course not. That’d be too much of a shock.”

“Oh,” Ringo deflated. Somewhat. He looked away, lips sucked into his mouth. “It’s gonna get born some time, ye know.”

“I _know._ It’s just...... well, mad. Fuckin mad,” he crossed his arms over his bump, as if not wanting Baby to hear. “I mean, how would you even begin to tell Elsie, huh?”

“Why d’you think I was tryna call her?”

George’s eyes widened. Also because it was then the baby fuckin BOOTED him. He let out a gasp. 

"I'm sorry," Ringo said. "I was gonna bring the phone in so we could tell her together, somethin like that—"

"It's fuckin _kickin,"_ George said, though it came out as wordless breaths when he heard himself say it. He pulled Ringo's hand up his shirt and to his stomach. "ARE YOU FEELING IT NOW MISTER STARR???"

Ringo's eyes widened. WIDENED. He placed his other hand on there, and George pushed himself into Ringo's palms. The baby had stopped, again, because, these commas and not being able to feel ur child are _annoying_ , and Ringo was VERY FUCKING, ANNOYED. 

"Baby, it's me!" Ringo said like he was gonna cry. His head was practically smushed in George's tits with how close they were now. "I just wanna feel that you're really there!"

Nothing happened. Ringo's head was beginning to droop. "God, I'm a terrible father," he said. "Our child hates me."

George felt a stiffness in his bottom and something churning, but it was way out of Ringo's reach. He felt so unbelievably hot and his nipples felt like fuckin rocks. He shot out of Ringo's touch and pulled off his shirt. 

Ringo stared at him, eyes the size of windmills bigger than the WHOLE OF WHEREVER ENGLAND WAS LOCATED, bitch. And they were so blue. George forgot what he was doing because they were so blue. 

"Uhhhhhhhhhhhh," said Ringo.

 _"Fuck_ me, it's hot in there!" George threw his bra out a window and laid himself face-up. "Maybe it'll kick then!"

"Oh, okay," Ringo said more enthusiastically than that sentence may sound. He went right for George's lips and kissed him deeply, his ringed hands moving up and down the new curves of his body in a frenzy. The heat rushed to George's head as he wrapped his legs around Ringo's butt. The baby was now between them. George noticed Ringo dared not lay down on him, and for which he was grateful, but

"Wait, lemme move," George said, and Ringo got off him. George dragged all of himself to lie across the bed for headroom and then pulled Ringo's face back to meet his. His mind was a fog, added with the ecstasy of Ringo's lips against his, but one thing stood very clear. Ringo had wanted to tell Elsie. Ringo had wanted to tell his _mum._ Ringo wanted to be the highest form of _DAD._

_RINGO WAS PROUD OF THEIR FUCKIN KID._

And Ringo was now kissing down the solid curve of his belly. George’s back arched in pleasure. His bump shot up and smacked Ringo in the nose.

"Ahh! God!" Ringo yelled, stopping himself from falling off the bed. "Geo, what the—"

"Lord, I'm sorry," George panted. "It was jus..... jus really good......."

Ringo rubbed his nose. George crossed his arms over his tits in sudden self-consciousness. Big mistake. He squeezed his nipple in the crook of his elbow and c a me.

"Oh, Georgie." Ringo sighed. But he moved back over still, leaned down and kissed his lips. And the heat in George's body turned into pure, warm love. He closed his eyes and sighed back into Ringo's mouth, moving his hands to cup his face. They kissed for a long, long time. 

"Let's get you both cleaned up," Ringo whispered when he pulled away, and George realised through the haze that the warmth on his bump was come. And that Ringo had no pants. And he laughed.

Gentle night in, it is. After they washed and dressed for bed Ringo laid his head on George's shoulder, rubbing the bump absentmindedly. George was sleepy. Ringo was too, but in a way I don't know exactly how to describe, neither of them felt like sleeping. I think that says well enough. 

"D'you think it has ears yet?" Ringo asked. The Hack had said he'd check once he located his ultrasound gel.

"Let's hope," George replied. "Let's hope they have your ears."

"What's wrong with _your_ ears?" Ringo gave George's earlobe a kiss. "All the better to hear me say _I love you_ with."

George chuckled. He rested his hand on top of Ringo's, letting him lean closer. As lovely as it all was, his eyelids were beginning to feel really heavy. 

"Maybe they _can_ hear you," he said. "Tell us a story."

Ringo went quiet, face screwed up in concentration. Then he scooched to lie closer to Baby.

"One time yer Uncle Paul got very angry at yer Uncle John because John was eating a baguette in their bed and dropping lots of crumbs—"

"Good Lord, I meant a _fairy_ story," George said. "And don't tell our child bout violent shit."

"Okay then. Once upon a time there was.... uh.... a little girl with a red hood. Everyone called her Little Red Riding Hood."

"That's more like it."

"One day her mum sent her into her gran's house in the woods with a basket full of goodies and told her she mustn't ever talk to strangers. But while in the woods she ran into a Big Wolf. The Big Wolf wanted to eat her and her goodies, so he asked Lil Red Riding Hood where she was going. She said she was going to her gran's, and the Big Wolf then had an idea. He suggested Little Red to pick flowers for her gran. When she went flower-picking the Big Wolf went to Gran's house and then ate her. She screamed for help from inside his big tummy."

"Oh noooo," George huffed, clearly picking up on Ringo's hint. But he laughed still.

"And then the Big Wolf put on Gran's nightcap and gown and laid in bed, waiting for Lil Red," Ringo continued. "When she arrived she thought her gran looked very strange. She went up to her bed and said 'My, Gran, what big eyes you have!'"

"All the better to see you with, my dear," said George. 

"And then Lil Red saw the Big Wolf's hairy paws. She said, 'My, Gran, what big hands you have!'"

"All the better to embrace you with, my dear."

"And then finally, Lil Red saw the glint of very sharp teeth in the Big Wolf's mouth. And she said, 'My, Gran, what big teeth you have!'"

"All the better to _eat_ you with, my dear!" George then tickled Ringo and sent him screaming. He nestled back in when George moved closer. 

"And so, baby, the Big Wolf then stood up in bed and opened his Big Mouth to Little Red. Little Red screamed. She was going to be eaten. But then suddenly the Big Wolf stopped. He clutched his stomach in pain."

George blinked. He put his hands around his bump as if something had happened to it. 

"The Big Wolf suddenly dropped back in the bed and started yelling about the terrible ache he had. Little Red then realised that it was, of course, the Big Wolf and not her sweet gran."

"That's not how the story goes," said George.

"I'm the one who's tellin it Dada," Ringo booped George's cheek. "Being a kind little girl, she couldn't resist an animal in pain. Even if it had eaten up her gran. She dug in her goodies basket and found a cherry bun. She put the bun in the Big Wolf's mouth and made him swallow it. She held onto his hairy paw, and then in a flash the Big Wolf screamed once more, and suddenly her very confused Gran was in the bed too, covered with slime from his—"

Ringo blinked. George did too, engrossed. Ringo's hand was set against the swell of his belly, his mouth widening.

"Well?" George asked. "Gran was in the bed?—"

"IT KICKED!!!!!!" Ringo whooped. He placed his other hand eagerly on George's stomach, and George realised then the movement from within him. Ringo shot forward and kissed him on the mouth. George couldn't contain the smile that formed there, cupping his face back. 

"Finally," he said. 

"NO SHIT, SHERLOCK!" Ringo breathed. He then passed out happily in their bed, hand still on George's belly. "FUCKYEAHHHHh!"


	7. bodily fluids

The next morning, THE PAIN WAS BAAAAAAAAACK. George could barely move. He screamed at Ringo to wake up and fetch water. Ringo was so nervous he'd cracked open a whiskey and nearly fed that to George in his nervousness. Then he nearly called the police instead of the Hack. He held the phone to George.

"The _fuck's_ that for?"

"It's ringin'!"

George winced in reply. His ribs throbbed and his back hurt too much to lie on it. He rolled onto his side, facing away from Ringo. And Ringo, of course, threw the line down and swooped in to spoon him. 

"NONONONONO, go away!!!" George screamed, shooing him. "It _hurts!"_

"That's why I'm tryna hold you!"

"DON'T! IT HURTS EVEN MORE!"

"WELL WHAT SHOULD I DO????" Ringo capslocked in concern, blanking the number on the phone out. "DO YOU NEED AN AMBULANCE???"

"FUCK OFF RITCHIE, YOU'RE GONNA SEND ME INTO LABOUR WITH THAT!"

" _ARE_ YOU IN LABOUR??????????" 

"I'M ONLY 4 MONTHS IN YOU COCKSHITE!"

"WHAT DOES THAT MEAN?????????????????????????????????????"

"IT MEANS GET ME A FUCKIN PILLOW, BUTTFUCK."

Ringo complied. He threw the phone down and snatched up his own pillow. Very carefully he slid it to under the curve of George's stomach. His hands were sweaty. He was too, fringe wet with droplets around the eyes. Clearly George wasn't the only one stressed by the whole thing. He felt bad for yelling then. Ringo had just wanted to help. AND HE LOVED HIM, MOTHERFUCKER. 

George opened his mouth to speak, but Ringo dashed out of the room. Though he returned in a flash, a sofa cushion and a book in hand. He flipped and studied the thing for a moment before he tore the blankets off of George and got the cushion in between his legs. And something went right into place. Slowly the pain started to ebb.

"Better?" Ringo panted, clutching the book like grim death.

George looked at him. He dare not imagine what they both looked like. Poor Ringo looked like he was going to collapse. And he was pantsless. And George— started cryin. 

Ringo knelt at George's bedside worriedly, hesitating as his hand hovered over holding him. 

"Oh luvie, what's wrong?" 

"Nothin. It's— I jus..." George then had a thought of a horrible hospital ward, surrounded by doctors whose faces screwed up as he screamed and screamed and screamed and SCREAMED as Baby came out from _down there._ What would that even be _like??_ If he'd thought he'd split in half when Ringo entered him that first time, this would splice him into _shreds._ He'd never get to see their child. They'd have to pick him up piece by piece. And Ringo would have to raise their child all _alone._ It was such a painful thought it hurt his chest thinking about it.

"Georgie. Love," Ringo said. His eyes were teared up, too. "What's the matter? Do you need me to call someone?"

"I'm...... I'm sorry, no," George croaked out. "No, I..... you can hold me now."

Ringo stood up sharp. He crawled behind George and laid himself there slowly, an arm above their heads and the other draped over his belly. George shivered as he felt the press of Ringo's nose against the nape of his neck ever so gently, followed by the definite little kiss that followed. Ringo had placed his book on the side table. The pillow under his head grew damp. 

"What's that book?"

"Um. It's about making pregnancy comfy," Ringo replied. "I made Hack loan it to me."

George wanted to smile. His emotions had been fucked over by the baby, so he cried some more instead. But he still managed a smile. 

"I'm gonna see if I can get a fairy book too," Ringo continues. He rubs the side of the bump. "Wanna get better at telling stories."

"You do?"

"I do."

George let out a cry. Despite his back pain hating him right down to the core he turned to face Ringo. Ringo's surprised hands moved to secure the landing of his belly, and George kissed him firmly on the lips. He couldn't tell if the wet was from him or Ringo or if it was sweat or tears or whatever bodily fluids that weren't supposed to be there, but it didn't matter. The thought of that hospital ward is given a paint job. He's not in shreds. He holds their baby in a blanket with Ringo at his side, pressing a long kiss to his temple. Then the nursery, bright red and purple, and Ringo making a silly voice for his fairy story. And in their bed Ringo kissed back, sniffling a little himself. Through his own teary eyes he brought a hand to George's face and wiped the tears from _his_ eyes. 

"You're gonna be okay," Ringo said, and smiled. "We're gonna be the _greatest_ dads!"

The day passed fine. To ease his worries Ringo dialed the Hack again for George while he went to make breakfast. 

"I can assure you that it's very normal to feel pains right now," the Hack said cheerily. "Your blood flow's increasing and your insides are widening. But are ya throwing up from this pain? Outside regular morning sickness?"

"No," George answered. "I take the dipshit everyday."

"Great! And I'll prescribe you something to ease the pains on your next visit, but these won't make them go away. So sorry."

"It's okay. I understand."

"Cool. Anything else?"

George thought for a bit. He felt the baby kick then.

"Er, yes," he said. "When I uh, give birth—"

George suddenly heard something like a seal harping on the other end. And a man cursing loudly. But he ignored it. 

"When I give birth, are they gonna cut me open or am I gonna have to.... uhm... you know............ _push?"_

The Hack was silent. Though there was electricity zapping loudly in the background. And something that sounded like a piano being dropped. 

"Sorry, I was takin care of somethin," said the Hack suddenly. "Which would you prefer?" 

"Wha?"

"Would you prefer to be cut open or do a natural delivery?"

George felt a tense pain in his lower back. And in his chest.

"Uh. Which one's less painful?"

"Being cut open."

"HOW?????"

"Anaesthesia, of course!" The Hack laughed. Or at least George thought. The ripping chainsaw in the background drowned him out. And it made George want to puke. "However," the Hack added, "We can't guarantee that the anaesthetic works every time."

"...........................................so you're saying that they both might be equally painful?"

"Don’t worry, I can assure you that it is very normal to feel extreme pain _anyway_ while in labour.”

“That’s not very comforting,” George said, deadpan.

“I’m a doctor, not a liar,” The Hack replied. “And if it helps you feel any better, one way to get over is that ya don’t have to think of it as pushing out a baby. Just imagine you’re taking a really big shit.” 

George started chuckling. 

“Except you’re gonna have to raise the really big shit for the rest of your life.”

“Hey, don’t call me kid a shit.”

“Sorry Mister Harrison. Issa metaphor,” the Hack said. George then heard a very loud moaning noise in the distance. Then something galloping.

“Hack, where the hell are you?”

“Part-time job,” the Hack said, and hung up. George stared into space sweating before he set the phone down. 

All was well after that. For a few days. Because a few days later it was Paul’s fucking _birthday._ And John had phoned them. 

"I'm hostin Macca's party," he declared. "Cyn's makin all the good shit."

He meant the cake. And whiskey.

"Oh, gear," Ringo said, glancing over at George stripping desperately in bed. _"Super_ gear."

"I know. Be here at 4. Show up anytime before that and I'll have Jules piss on you himself." Then he hung the fuck up.

“I can’t believe I forgot,” George cried as he got up nakedly. His sharp cheekbones had melted into softness. His bump was the size of his head. And his tits were _huge._ "Did you say we would go??"

"Uhh."

"He's makin us isn't he," George put his face in his hands. "Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck!"

"I could tell him you're really sick," Ringo suggested, hand on the rotary. "And we can send Paul that card of yours by mail—"

"I've had bronchitis for like two _months_ now," George said. "They're gonna wonder why I ain't better! And _what_ card?"

"The uh, thing you were writing last night?"

"No, that's fer mum and dad," George said. "I'm fuckin telling them."

Ringo's eyes WIDENED. But not to windmills. He licked his lips and nodded, but didn't take his eyes off of him. 

"You really wanna go then?

"Well, yeah! And I can't have em thinkin ye killed me, can I?"

"............what?"

"I miss em, " said George. "And, well..... last party before we're parents?"

Ringo chuckled, despite still looking terrifyingly worried. He looked at George's belly as if it were a time bomb. But he got up anyway and held George's hands. 

* * *

At 4 on the 18th, George and Ringo parked outside Kenwood and stood against their car for a moment. George took in deep breaths as Ringo fiddled with his rings.

"Well," he said. "Alright?"

"Alright," George said resolutely. He put his hands in his pockets. The left held Paul's birthday card and the right held the postcard marked to Mum and Dad. George forced himself to remember which was which, for his memory had absolutely gone to shit after being on rounds and rounds of dipshit. He took in another breath as Ringo rang the doorbell.

John kicked the door open instantly and his eyes went wide. 

"Finally," he said. Then he notcied George. He threw the door wide with a BIG grin that made George feel very tiny. "There you are Geo! I thought you was dead!"

"Gonna take a lot to kill me," George laughed uncomfortably. 

"Damn Ringsy, you're an ace nurse," John motioned for them to come in. "Paul ain't here yet. I told him party started at 5 so he can be 'fashionably' late," John rolled his eyes. And then he fixed on George. "What's with the parka?"

"I'm cold," George said immediately.

"It's June."

"He had bronchitis, Johnny," Ringo said, steering John away. "Now _I_ had some bronchitis ontop of me TB, and lemme tell you it ain't a hot time."

George heaved a sigh of relief. John and Ringo had gone to the kitchen to check on the food. George hung back, not ready to face sweet old Cyn. He looked around instead. John had put in a new carpet for the living room, along with a sleek new coffee table with newspapers and mail cluttered on it. As he turned the corner, there was Julian sitting in front of the table, beating on the carpet.

“Cyn’s gone off fixin her hair," John explained as he ran out to take a paper from the table. "Ey Jules, say hi to Uncle Georgie!”

“Hi Unca Georgie,” Julian said, bobbing his little head at him. He was sitting on the carpet and had on his knee a teddy bear in a leather suit and black rubber boots on its paws. 

“Hey Jules,” George smiled. “And who’s this?” He leaned down the best he could and booped the bear’s nose.

“Elvis!” Julian declared proudly. He set Elvis on his boots and rattled him side-to-side like the King himself. John and Ringo emerged then with cups of tea. George applauded. Ringo gave a whistle. John whooped uproariously and wiped a fake tear from his eye. 

“I taught him so well," he said, and then nearly spilt tea on his son. "Oooh, Jules, save Elvis!"

 _"Nooo, nooo!"_ Julian said in his impression of Elvis' deep croon. He dove to the floor, the bear clutched to his chest. George felt something in his chest then, but for once it wasn't the soreness of his tits. Ringo had gotten on his knees to inspect the bear.  
  
"He's a beaut."

"Mummy got him for me," Julian said, holding out Elvis' paw to shake. "Say hi."

Ringo shook the Bear King's hand, excitedly whispering how honoured he was. And George felt something so utterly beautiful I ain't got the capacity as an author to tell you what it was. He put a hand to feel his stomach, though it was covered by layers and layers of black parka. 

"Jules," came a voice from the stairs nearby. "We're gonna have guests, have you put your toys away?"

_CYNTHIA._

"Uncas here!" Julian dropped Elvis and ran to her, hugging her legs when she reached the bottom. George swallowed quickly. 

"Oh hi Cyn," Ringo said cheerfully. "You look really nice!"

"Thank you," she said with a smile, which subtly faded as her eyes then fell on George. "I was..... doin my hair."

Ringo politely pretended not to notice. And thankfully, Julian had whispered something that sent her rushing into the kitchen. George sat carefully on the sofa, where Ringo offered him a cup of tea.

"Jesus Christ," said Ringo. "How're we doin?"

"Tight," George quickly adjusted the sheet they'd cut and wound around his breasts. Thank the Lord they'd stopped being sore a while ago, but now the sensitivity was buildinG WITH HOW THE STUFF WAS CHAFING HIS NIPPLES. He looked at Ringo's eyes to get his mind off it.

"Tight good or tight bad—"

"I'M _HEAAAAAAAAAAAAA-EARE!"_ the door flung open and Paul strutted in, dressed in full Beatle garb. George and Ringo shut the fuck up. Julian came dashing to his favourite uncle and was scooped up into his arms. 

"Happy birthday Unca Paul!"

"Thank you, sweetheart!" Paul kissed his cheek. "Did ye get me a present?"

Julian then scampered onto the floor, running up to his room yelling that he'd get it. Paul rounded the living room and his eyes lit up. 

"Ritchie! Georgie!" He opened his arms. "I'm twenty-three!!!!"

Ringo got up to hug him first, allowing George time to zip up the thick parka. Paul's hug still came crushingly close and so TIGHT, George feared that Paul was sure to feel something different. But nothing happened. When they broke apart Paul simply stared at George's face. 

"You been eating alot," he said. "You've got cheeks!"

"Owe it to Ritchie."

Ringo nodded enthusiastically. Paul was smiling too much to be suspicious. "Nice coat."

"Thanks," George pulled the card from his right pocket. "Happy birthday, Mac."

Paul threw his arms around George again, laughing like a kid. Ringo stood by on high alert, but THANKFULLY Paul seemed to not notice anything out of the blue. Hahaha

"I missed you, you arse," Paul said, air-kissing him. He tucked the card into his suit jacket and then turned to Ringo. "John mad bout me yet?"

He was. John pretended to sock Paul on the head at dinner. They had all crowded around the coffee table. Julian had given Paul a crayon portrait of him playing his bass and a shiny white stone he'd found in a park. Julian now sat happily on his lap, fingers sticky with chocolate ice-cream. 

"I'm gonna keep this forever," Paul said seriously, folding Jules' drawing neatly into his jacket. "It's my favourite art now."

"I literally sculpted a _bust_ of you," John said in indignance. 

“Daddyyyyy,” said Julian, pointing at John’s chip. John dipped it in the ice-cream before feeding it into his waiting mouth like a hook to a fish. 

“Cold!”

“You like?” John grinned.

“Yes!!” 

“Attaboy. Here,” John slid his son his own share of the chips and the ice-cream bowl. “You can have mine.”

“I luve you,” said Julian. John gave a laugh and kissed his chocolatey cheek. Cyn tutted with a smile and set to wiping his smeary face with a tissue.

George felt like he should be taking notes. His hand strayed to his stomach for the millionth time, damn the risk. From his heart he promised Baby that when they made it, he'd give them all the ice-cream they could eat. Even if he had to wipe their little mouth over and over again. Ringo was looking at him, he could tell. And perhaps this was also on his mind, for his ringed hand squeezed his before reaching out for their share of the food. Most of it had melted from the heat. George cupped his hand under his spoon least it dripped.

Cyn took Julian off to wash him along with their bowls when all the ice-cream and cake was gone. He came back moments later and hugged Elvis, who had fallen face-first on the carpet.

"So," John said, giving Julian's hair quick ruffle, "How's life for the Harrison-Starkeys?"

"We painted a room," said Ringo. 

Paul gave a loud snort. He'd made Cyn put whiskey in his ice-cream AND his cake. "Purple."

"Of course," said George. 

"It's reallllyyyyyy good ta see you again," Paul said, handing John a cigarette because Mclennon is telepathic. "I thought you was dead."

Everyone then looked at Ringo, who chuckled confusedly with a long drink of his tea.

"I got better, ya stink," said George. 

"And Cynnie looks well," Ringo remarked. 

"Best she's ever been," John took a short puff of his smoke. “And by the way she’s _not_ pregnant, thank ye very much.”

Paul chuckled stupidly. Ringo spat his tea back into the cup. George’s hand instantly came up to cup his bump before he remembered where he was. 

“Daddy, what’s pregnant?” Julian asked innocently.

“Pregnant is when a lady has a baby and _everyone can tell_ because her tummy grows _huuuuuuuuuuuuuuge,_ see,” John indicated a ballooning stomach at the front of his own with his hands. “That’s the baby.”

“Baby inside?”

“Tha’s right.”

“Oh. How’s it get inside?”

John then froze up around his cigarette. He took it out and blew everything out in anxiety. “Well chap,” he started nervously. “When Daddy really loves Mummy he gives her a big kiss on the lips, and from the kiss is the, uh, _love!_ That love goes from Daddy’s mouth and into Mummy’s mouth and goes down her body and then—”

“Daddy and Mummy have sex, Jules,” said Paul.

John ate his whole damn ciggie and gave Paul the stink eye. 

“Oh, okay!” Julian then got up and went to the stairs.

“Shut the fuck up Macca,” John hissed, stomping to the kitchen with his teacup.

“What? You were lyin to him!” Paul protested, eating another bite of cake. He then looked over at George and Ringo. George hadn’t moved at all from when he had sat down, and Ringo had gone chalk white in the face. “You two are awful quiet,” he remarked.

“Oh?” said Ringo, pretending everything was ok. “Sorry mate. It’s, ah, damn, what kinda tea is this?” He sniffed at his cup. 

Thankfully, Paul nodded. “Y’know, I’m startin to think that John uses these as ashtrays.”

George stared hard at the bottom of his. There were the usual black dregs at the bottom, but the thought of them possibly being from ciggies— and then Baby— made his stomach turn. He set his cup on the side table as stably as he could.

Then John emerged from the kitchen with Cyn. And Eppy’s whiskey. And a whole fuckin tray of wine glasses. “Hi boys,” she said, making way for John to clear the cake plates off the table. 

“And Paulie,” John added. 

“Ah,” Paul said cheekily. “Cause I’m a _man_ now?”

“No, you’re a 23-year-old princess.”

George and Ringo tried to chuckle, but it sounded so awkward they were sure they would fuck it all up. George noticed Ringo’s hand curling around his. “D’you wanna go?” he whispered.

“Go where?” John cut in, two full wine glasses in hand. “Leavin so soon?”

“Uh, no thanks,” George looked at the glasses warily. “I jus recovered.”

John looked shocked. “But this is _Eppy’s_ stash.”

“I realised I prefer bein healthy,” George said randomly. John turned his thicc eyebrows up at him, and just handed Ringo a glass. He set the other on the tray. 

“It’s here if ya change yer mind,” he said, and then cosied up to his wife on the carpet. Meanwhile the strong smell of whiskey was driving George insane. His nose hurt and his chest ached. He suddenly felt too hot. The room was tilting and Paul’s laughing was too loud. 

George and Ringo looked at each other. George shut his eyes and placed his hand at the base of the parka. There was a clink of something and Ringo had helped him stand. 

"Scuse us," Ringo cleared his throat, "But it's awful late."

"It's eight-thirty," said Cyn. 

"I left the stove on," George said quickly. "Lovely cake, Cyn, really."

"Aw, c'mon," John laughed. Paul pouted.

"Happy birthday Paulie!" Ringo yelled, already ushering George to the door. "Buhbye Jules! Rock on!"

Then, as if the timing couldn't be more accurate, Baby _kicked._ George gasped so deeply it could've been a fuckin orgasm. Ringo slammed the door shut behind them and unlocked the car, hands shaking and jangling the fuckin keys. George plopped in heavily, panting like a thirsty arse, and immediately stripped off his parka. Ringo sped down the street and into the first alley he found. Even after that Ringo took off his own coat and held it against his side of the window as a shield. 

Something didn't feel right. Though George's chest stopped hurting— he'd grown used to the chafing, but now it just felt _different._ Ringo was looking at him worriedly. He'd turned on the car light at the lowest setting, trying to see if there was something he could do. George pulled off his top in one swift motion. All that was left was his trousers and sheet binder.

"Luvie," Ringo whispered, moving his coat higher. "D'you need the air-con?"

George nodded, and tried to sit up. And then there was a wet spot on the sheet binder. George looked down in shock. _Two_ wet spots were steadily blooming over the sheet, darkening the white into grey. And then there was the _smell._

"Oh," said Ringo. He turned the air-con all the way up as he lost control of his jaw falling to the floor of the car.

 _"Fuck,"_ said George. Now it was too cold. 

* * *

Paul had had a good 23 years. And a good night, though he made a mental note to call up Whaddon House once he was home to make sure George and Ringo hadn't gassed themselves. Cyn had sent him off with a box of cake and John had stolen his pants. But now he sat in his parked car outside his brand new Number 7, admiring Jules' rendition of him. 

And then the postcard bearing George’s curly handwriting fell into his lap. His heart leapt with joy because he missed his best mate so fuckin much. He flipped it over— and then he felt himself stop. 

_To Louise and Harold Harrison_

_Dear Mum and Dad,_

_There’s no easy way to say this, so I’ll just be honest:_

_I’m pregnant and it’s Ritchie’s. I dunno how either but it’s ours and no one else’s._ _It’s due sometime mid-December and we’re keeping it. Write back when it’s ok for us to visit or if you can drop by._

_Love, George_

_P.S. This isn’t a joke. Really isn't. I’ll send you the sonograms from my next appointment. I can’t send any of the ones we’ve got right now because Ritchie really wants to save our first batch and I don’t trust the post to not lose it._

_P.P.S. I’m not a woman. I still have my—_

Next to it was a doodle of a thick line emerging from between two circles. And at that Paul immediately blacked out, smashing the horn with his forehead and filling the street with a blaring noise.


	8. this is for real

“Uh, well,” Ringo said as he gawked at George’s leaky tits. “At least we know how to feed it.”

George stared at him. He then put his head down and started laughing. At first it seemed in good humour, low and amused, but when Ringo opened his mouth to laugh along George suddenly shut his mouth and fell heavily against the seat. 

“Oh shit, you alright?” said Ringo.

“Yeah.” Tears welled in George’s eyes. “Let’s go home.”

Ringo unwisely drank another whiskey as he sped back home. Maybe they shouldn’t have gone out. And if this were to keep up, how were they ever going to introduce their child to the rest of them??? _Oh and by the way George got knocked up last year????? We've been fathers the whole time??????? Here’s our kid?????????????_

“Are you in pain?” Ringo asked as he mowed down a lamp post. 

“No,” George replied, holding onto his seat. “It jus feels weird.”

Ringo stepped on the fuckin gas anyway. He dodged a pillarbox at the corner of the street. George then screeched at him. 

“TURN AROUND THERE WAS A MAIL DROP,” he shouted, and with great difficulty threw his parka at Ringo’s face. “Put the postcard in it!”

“What postcard???” 

“The one I wrote to me parents! It’s in the right!”

Ringo pulled the brake. He fumbled in the parka’s right pocket, but it was empty. But something thin and hard bumped his other hand in the left, so he pulled that out. Then he stared. And blinked. 

“What’re ya waitin for????” George moaned. His whole sheet was now stained a soppy grey and straining to hold all of his breasts. “Just post it!”

“....uh.”

“WHAT, Richard???”

“George, love, don’t freak out—”

“JUST MAIL MY PARENTS THE FUCKIN LETTER!”

“—but this says _Happy Birthday Maccaroni.”_

Ringo was then shot in the face with a stream of milk. Or so it seemed. Under the lights he’d knocked down the liquid on him shone as yellow as melted butter. It triggered a memory of him walking around a hospital, barely over 6 years old, holding his poor hurting tummy in search of a free toilet. He opened the first door he saw, in just the wing next to his, and came face-to-face with jars and tanks and ACRES of yellow liquid. 

‘That’s milk,’ Elsie said when he asked her. ‘......somewhat.’

When Ringo wiped it out of his eyes George had his hand over his mouth (AND HIS CHEST) in horror. Then he shut _his_ eyes and passed the fuck out. 

Ringo screamed. He bent forward, dripping wet and trying not to mind how cheesy everything smelt, and started untying the sheet around George. Maybe it was too tight, it _looked_ suffocating. This had been such a bad, bad, bad idea. He knew he should've at least looked into getting some different type of bra.

But then he stopped. He had to, because his hands froze. Fainting meant bad business in pregnancy, didn’t it? He wouldn’t be able to Hack or Book his way out of this. And because Fuck Angst, right next to the pillarbox was a very conveinient phonebox. He drove up right next to it, threw his parka over George and dialed for Eppy.

“Hello?” the line sounded cracky and weird. Ringo then noticed that the car’s hood was bent into the wall with the phonebox. Shit.

“Lemme speak to Eppeh,” said Ringo.

“...who?”

“Brian Eppeyhhhh,” Ringo said, turning to keep an eye on George. His head had smacked against the window. 

“Waitaminute, are you the Beatles?”

“Duh!”

There was a shuffle. Then a groan, a long one, and then EPPY. 

“Which one are you?” he sounded like he’d been interrupted.

“Eppeh? It’s Ringo,” he said, cracking open another whiskey. “I need an ambulance sent to the fucked up phonebox downtown and—”

“Wait, what?”

“GET ME AN AMBULANCE! AND A PRIVATE HOSPITAL ROOM LIKE WHEN CYN GAVE B—”

“Whoa whoa, _Ringo,”_ said Eppy. “Are you alright? Are you hurt?”

“It’s not fer me! It’s George!”

“Oh god, is _he_ hurt?”

“No he ain’t. We came from Paul’s birthday and we had a bit of a row and he just fuckin _passed_ out in the car,” Ringo’s voice broke. He spilt whiskey all over the phonebox glass. “Also I put the car in the phonebox but it’s okay.”

“Uhhhh,” Eppy said. “Okay…... you stay with George and make sure he keeps breathing. I’ll send people. Downtown, you said?”

“YES!”

“He’s in the car, and the car is…. in the phonebox…..”

“FUCKIN _YES.”_

“And he’s passed out but uninjured,” said Eppy. “Alright. Anything else you need the medics to know before I send them?” 

* * *

Paul blinked. He was suddenly aware of himself again. The light in his eyes came from the sides. 

“Uhhh.”

“He’s awake,” someone yelled. He saw a flash of red.

“....Jane?”

Suddenly a nose was in his face.

“Close.”

Thank god it was only John. Paul blinked quickly. In the armchair next to him was Cyn in a red hat, Julian sleeping in her lap.

“Where… where am I?”

“Yer house,” said John. Paul recognised his bedroom then. “Cyn found yer lighter on the table so we came to drop it off. And we brought some more cake. But when we got here Jane was screaming for help and half yer body was outta yer car.”

Paul blinked again. He’d been reading his birthday mail. Jules had given him a drawing of him.

“We thought you’d been hit, but your car was fine,” Cyn said. “Jane and John pulled you up here while I called for the ambulance.”

“....ye called an ambulance?”

“Well, I called Brian,” she explained. Julian stirred in her lap. She stroked his hair to quiet him. “He said he’d send one over. All private, right?”

John nodded at her. Paul tried to sit up, and a pain appeared in his head. 

And then there’s a card. 

“Brian said something strange too,” Cyn remarked. “He said that not too long ago, _Ringo_ had just phoned him to ask for an ambulance too.”

“What?” said John. “Why?”

“That’s all he said. Ringo phoned him for one too, and Brian wanted to make sure we weren’t partying too hard…”

“Why the hell would Ringo phone an ambulance? The hell’s _George_ doin?”

Paul’s head clicked. “Uhhhhhh.”

“Whoa, watch it,” John said, steadying him. “We had to mop you up.”

Paul put a hand to his head and found a sticking plaster right between his eyes. _And then he saw it._

“George,” he heard himself say.

“George?” John repeated. 

“George’s pregnant.”

John stared at him. Then he stared at Cyn. Cyn drew back, lips pursed. She kept her grip tight on Julian. 

“Shit Cyn. Go phone em again,” John said, opening Paul’s left eye. “Think he got bopped real bad.”

“No!” Paul said, trying to pull away. “I’m not brain-damaged! I saw his postcard!”

 _“Quick_ Cyn! Tell Brian to step on it!”

Cyn, still uncomfortably silent, moved Julian off and rushed outside. 

“Ok Paul,” John opened Paul’s right eye. “Dyou know who I am?”

 _“John,”_ Paul said, very annoyed. “I’m fuckin _telling_ you, George handed me a card at the party but in it he was really writing to his Ma and Pa and he—“

“That’s right, I’m _Jawn_ ,” John said, pronouncing his own name funny. “Dyou know what yer—“

Paul looked around desperately. They’d loosened his tie and removed his suit jacket, but he’d already taken out his presents from it anyway. Then he spotted Jules’ drawing on his bedside table, paperweighted under a stone— AND THE CARD.

He snatched it off the table and shoved it right in John’s face before he collapsed back in bed from dizziness. Cyn came running back into the room. 

“I’ve called him!”

“For the last GOD DAMN TIME. I’M PERFECTLY LUCID!” Paul shouted.

“Okay Macca, don’t get yer pretty knickers in a twist,” John snickered as he took the postcard. 

  
  
  
  


Then he read it. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


He fell deadly silent. 

  
  
  
  
  
  


When his eyes stopped he got up and pushed it into his wife’s hands. He then walked over to Paul’s window, opened it and then jumped out.

 _“John!”_ shouted Cyn, running to the window. Paul’s curtains blew all around her head as he landed with a THUD. But John was now on the lawn, running to his car and getting in. Then there was a loud, loud LOUD sound of his head slamming the horn.

Cyn gaped at the dark shape of their car, blinking in confusion. Then slowly, she read the thumbed postcard.

  
  
  
  


And reread it. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


And rer ead i t.

  
  
  


An d re rea d i t.

A n d rere ad i t.

This is how I feel every time I come on this godforsaken site.

And reread it.

Cyn lowered the postcard from her face dramatically. 

“Oh, sweet _Jesus.”_

* * *

Ringo had never been so scared in his life. He held George’s limp hand all the way and screamed loudly when he began to stir. One of the medics had offered him a towel, which he’d given to George, who in turn simply laid it over his face the whole remainder of the journey there. When they removed it he was unconscious again. 

Some very confused medics were assigned to check on the baby. Ringo was not allowed in. He barfed whiskey all over the wall in retaliation and dropped to the floor. Oh fuck. Oh God. Angst isn't fun mate. Especially when Ringo couldn't even see what was going on.

Then suddenly, he could. 

“It’s alive,” said the doctor who bent down to shake him. “And it’s a boy.”

Ringo pushed the door open and was met with George, eyes shut and looking a hell lot more peaceful than ever. Ringo started cryin in relief. He ran to him and clutched his hand again. He pressed a long kiss to the back of it.

Sunshine, right? Alas, this is a crack fic. 

“Clear the way, Christy. We’ve got a full load tonight,” someone said. This made Ringo sit right up. People were talking outside their door.

“What do you mean, Ward Mother?”

“We’ve not one, but _two_ Beatles in tonight.”

There was a swoon. Then a loud thud. 

“Jesus Christy, they’re just boys! Nurses! Another one down!”

Ringo’s blood froze ice-cold. He looked at George, silent and unmoving in the bed, and willed every inch of his being in prayer for him to please PLEASE P L E A S E wake up so they could go the fuck _home._ But then he had horrible thoughts. _John? Paul?_ Surely it couldn’t be John, he was supposed to be safe at home with his wife and child— oh God, it was Paul. He’d had too much whiskey and now he’d banged himself up in an accident. Gotten mugged on the way home. What an eventful fuckin birthday. 

Then he looked at George again. They'd sponged him up and padded his chest or something, because it was no longer leaking. And it was bigger. You pervs. How the hell was it able to do that anyway?? He tried not to think about that. And he didn't, because

The door fell open with a SMACK. Ringo spun around from where he'd knelt, and HIS EYES WIDENED TO THE SIZE OF THE WHOLE OF EUROPE. John, Paul, Cynthia AND Julian were standing in the doorway. John had a bruise on his head. Paul had a plaster over his and was just in a sweater vest and trousers for some reason. Cyn was wide-eyed and was hanging onto a half-awake Julian by the hand. 

"Uhhhh," said Ringo.

“Oh sweet _Jesus!!!”_ John said in horror. He then threw up all over Paul’s sweater vest. Cyn pulled Julian away from John’s sudden vomit explosion and covered his ears. 

Ringo stood quickly and moved in front of George, but was unsure if he should hide his bump or his head. He danced like he needed the toilet.

“What the FUCK,” said Paul, screwing up his nose. He stripped off his sweater vest and stood shirtless in the doorway. 

“What’re you doin here????” Ringo yelled, now standing like a starfish. 

“What am _I_ doin here????” said Paul. “That’s me fuckin friend!”

"What happened to yer head???????" 

"Wouldn't you like to know!" Paul stepped into the room. Ringo then heard a soft moan from behind him. He gasped and flew to cradle _George's_ head.

"The _hell_ happened to him?" Paul demanded. "Brian said you were both in an accident!"

"Not _that_ sort of accident. Oh, George," Ringo said, shaking him gently. "Geo luv, we're okay. We're in the hospital but we're okay— "

"Oh my God," John said after he'd wiped his dirty mouth. And then of course, he _giggled._ "I can't believe ya hid this from us."

Ringo's blood froze as cold as what's left of this fuckin planet's icecaps. Still holding onto George, he barely turned to look at them. Cynthia was the only one peering to try and look at George. There was no need to ask where George's postcard had ended up.

"You wouldn't have believed us," Ringo said, moving closer to George.

"How d'you know?" John protested. "I mean, _I'm_ a dad. I've seen everythin."

"YOU HAVE A _WIFE!"_ Ringo yelled.

"Oh, shit," Paul sighed.

"Wha?" George said suddenly. "Ritchie?"

"You have no idea what it's been like for us," Ringo slogged. "Or for her. For him. We _were_ going to tell you! Maybe! But if you're just gonna laugh, don't you _dare_ laugh in front of me!"

John and Paul looked hurt. John looked at Cyn then, who looked at him dumbstruck. Julian stared at them all, his little ears still covered. 

"We're not here to _laugh_ ," John said, blinking rapidly. "Jesus Ring, whaddaya take us for?? You're our mates! Our brothers! When Brian mentioned you I got so worried!"

"I blacked out when I got yer postcard," Paul pointed to his sore head. "From the shock."

"....fuck." George groaned. He made to turn himself around, but was stopped by Ringo. 

"Oh my god, you guys," Ringo said. "I think he's wakin up— "

"Shit Ritchie, I'm fine— "

"D'you hear that???" Ringo yelled, obliviously shaking George harder. "That's it baby, you come back to us— "

"FUCKIN— SON— OF— A— "

"Ringo!" Cyn spoke at last. "Quit that, he's _awake!"_

"Oh," Ringo stopped at once. George dropped his head and tried to catch his breath. Ringo then squeezed him into a big hug. It took a moment before George's thin arms curled around his back. He looked at the four new people in the room.

"How many people know?" he asked.

"Um."

"The whole private staff of twelve," Paul crossed his arms as he strode closer. "And us."

"Ohhhh, Lord."

"...and Brian."

George laid his head on Ringo's shoulder.

".....and Louise and Harold," Cyn added. "I posted the card."

George sniffed. He then lowered himself back onto the pillows. John and Paul's eyes followed. 

"Stop staring at me tits," George warned. 

"Holy shit, you're already producin????" said John. "How far along are you???"

Ringo stepped in front of him protectively. "4 months."

"Are you— I'm sorry— " Cyn stepped in, too. "Are you _sure?_ That's awfully early."

"We have a doctor, he's Brian's friend. He said so."

"Who knows how much we can trust Brian's friends," John snorted.

"John, don't. The Hack was very nice to me."

Ringo blinked. "Waitaminute— "

"Okay, okay!" Paul raised his voice and stood next to Ringo. "Jesus, this has honestly been the weirdest birthday of me life. I'm quaking," he said. "You can bring the cameras out now."

Everyone stared at him. 

"Oh, this is for real?" Paul said, blinking. "Ooooh. Shit."

"What the fuck Macca," said John. 

"Boys," Cyn covered Julian's ears. But Julian was asleep in her arms. "Language."

"Sorry Cyn," Paul said, before he turned to Ringo and pointed his finger at him. “RICHARD STARKEY,” Paul said in a rage, “HOW DARE YOU IMPREGNATE MY BABY BROTHER!”

“I’M EIGHT MONTHS YOUNGER THAN YOU!” yelled George.

“YEAH, NO SHIT,” Paul patted George’s bump condescendingly before turning back to Ringo. “WHAT THE FUCK, RICHARD!”

"DON'T YOU KNOW HOW TO KEEP IT IN YER PANTS," John said, taking Julian from Cyn. 

"Uhh— "

"HOW THE FUCK ARE YOU GONNA RAISE IT. ESPECIALLY WHEN YOU'RE _BOTH_ OFF PLAYING AGAIN NEXT YEAR!"

“My god. Look, okay, _suppose_ I used a rubber,” Ringo put his hands out. “But even then, how the hell was I supposed to know this _could_ happen?”

Paul blinked. He looked at George. And his tits. And then he turned to John, who was rubbing his son's back. 

"Ye really do have a monster, eh? Damn," Paul remarked. "Well I suppose ye can't help it. This'll change everything, y'know that?"

“Oh, I do. I've known that ever since we found out. And _you_ know what, Paul?” Ringo continued. “If this is how we’re starting a family, then ok then!”

Paul stopped. His eyes WIDENED. Seriously, if there's anything that's actually bigger than Paul's eyes, leave me a review and tell me what it is because I can't find it. John's too. Cyn put her hand over her mouth. 

"We're gonna raise it, alright. It's _ours._ We'll find a way, even if we play all night, all day, get swamped or get blisters, ya _get_ it," George said, adjusting his blanket. "We'll be like John."

John looked down at Julian then. When he rose to look back at them he was smiling like a monkey. But a sane monkey. 

"Except there's two of us," Ringo said. "And until they make it legal, this is _our_ secret, ya hear me?"

Cyn nodded. John snorted, but it was his way of agreeing. And unmistakably, Paul got the sniffles real fast. Happy birthday, Macca.

When they had all left except for Ringo, he sat himself down near George's legs in tiredness. George leaned over and kissed him slowly. 

* * *

It was useless to try and make Ringo get out. He was simply too cute. And Brian had backed them up with enough blank cheques to fill banks, so Ringo moved into the sofa next to George's bed for the night. Not that he stayed there, though. After the nurses had left Ringo crawled into bed and helped George put on socks. They lay with their foreheads together.

"You smell like cheese," George whispered. 

"I smell like you," Ringo answered.

George gave a laugh. _"Can_ you eat cheese?"

"Goat's," Ringo thought. "I'm gonna see if they've got a shower."

There was a shower alright. And a bath. And a complimentary bar. Rich people be wildin. Ringo stood in it and showered quickly, only to come back to George plodding out of bed. 

"Ye need the loo?" he asked from the doorway.

"No, I need to uh, change." 

"Change what?"

"This stuff," George said vaguely, gesturing to his chest. Ringo fought hard to just nod and carry on, but his simp ass sat on the toilet as George came in. He watched as George untied his hospital gown and stood in front of the mirror in just the new boxers Ringo had bought him and the black bra Julian had picked from under their sofa. He picked up some sort of a pad from a box, two of them, and then _secured it in the cups._ Ringo felt so guilty for how his boner _stiffened_ then. 

"What's.... whas that," Ringo said. 

"Milk pads," George said, not looking away from his reflection. He put his fuckin hands on his breasts and cupped them, _lifted_ them, to see if they fit alright. Ringo thought of John and Paul and Julian pissing on them all to stop his— oh, fuck it. Fuck it. He was horny as FUCK. 

".................do they work?" 

"They're workin now," George said knowingly. That tease. He was clearly much more comfortable and clean now, which Ringo was very happy to see, but now his bosom was _massive._ Ringo just nearly avoided frothing at the mouth as George, humming _She Loves You,_ slowly slipped the hospital gown back on, making sure that his expanded chest was the last thing to leave Ringo's fuckin eyes. Oh God. What have I done. Ringo, surprisingly, kept his cool. He flushed the toilet even though he hadn't peed and went back into the room. 

Granted, maybe it _was_ just meant to tease him. How many times had they slapped each other's arse and ran during long hours in the studio? Ringo helped George into bed before starting to roll off for his sofa. But something stopped him. He still smelt the cheese an' sweetness in the air. 

"Are you okay?" he asked into the dark.

"Yeah."

"You sure?"

"Well..." George turned the light above his bed on. Ringo got in and sat next to him. "Technically it doesn't hurt."

"You can still tell me. You can tell me everything."

"Course. I didn't think... didn't think _that_ would happen. This. Especially not tonight."

"I don't think any of us did...." said Ringo. "That botherin you?"

"Not exactly," George shrugged. "I knew it'd happen eventually. But ye have to keep this to yerself."

"What, you makin milk?"

"No. It feels _good_ when it comes out."

"Good as in.... cause yer chest feels lighter?"

"That," George looked down at his breasts then, huge and plump in the gown. "And cause when I leaked in the car, I also _came."_

Ringo's soul YEETED itself into the cosmos and through the whole fucking universe. But that was only half of him, the horny bastard side of him. His tender bastard half stayed very silent. 

"Oh," said Ringo.

"I can't be doin shit like this, Ritchie!" George cried. "How am I supposed to feed our child if I'm gettin off of it at the same time??"

"I mean, _can_ you?" Ringo asked. "They come outta different holes, don't they?"

"I'm pretty _sure_ they do, but.... oh, Lord. Fuck. I'll never be a good dad."

"Hey, don't say that!" Ringo put his arms around him. "Ye haven't even gotten yer chance yet."

"What sort of sick fuck gets off when they're feeding their baby??"

"I dunno! Maybe it's normal! We could ask Cyn if that ever—"

"Good fuckin Lord, Ritchie, you're _outta_ it."

"Luvie, Cyn _knows_ now, remember?"

George blinked. He looked down solemnly at his bump, putting his hand to it. And then travelling it all the way up to his bustline. 

"I basically interrogated her bout her fanny that last time."

"Maybe this time she'll be more open bout her fanny."

George stared at him. And then he bit his lip trying not to laugh. Ringo leaned in and smiled against his shoulder, rubbing his back. Y'know what I mean. It's real love. It's real. They stayed there, content to hold each other forever. But it'd been a long long long day ain't it. Treasure these words. I'm timeskipping later. ~~Or am I???~~

"Let's get sleep, shall we?" Ringo suggested gently, keeping his forehead to George's. He fully expected a nod, a tired yes, sleepy kiss, love. And those he did get. But it's not over yet!

"I don't think I can sleep yet," George said. Something about the way he said it was NOT sleepy. Or innocent. Because right after that he reached a hand to his back and undid the knot of his hospital gown. 

Ringo was truly stunned for words. So he let George say it instead. 

"I'm too full _,"_ George whispered. Then he took Ringo's hand in his. "And these are really _heavy."_


	9. how you like me now?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @ the lovely writer who wrote that fic linked down below,,,, i love you. you're a wonderful writer and i hope you have a splendid day! 💞 i'm so, so sorry for this. and for the next chapter.

Ringo awoke the next day on a toilet seat, legs propped up on the toilet flushbox. In the women’s room. About five different buildings away. And he was butt-ass naked. And he was covered head to toe in yellow milk. Or cheese. He decided to go with cheese.

He ran into a frenzy trying to find his way back, skidding across the grass and hot pavement. Upon reaching the private ward he kicked the door open and was met with the sight of a thankfully sleeping George. He lay butt-ass naked too, hugging a soaked blanket to his chest. 

Ringo sighed.

It was the weirdest hangover ever. He showered quickly and dressed in his outfit from last night, despite it smelling faintly of dairy. He woke George and helped him into the bath. He gave the nurses who changed the sheets a blank check as he tried to process the utter _shitstorm_ of the last 24 hours in his mind. 

Birthday party. Elvis teddy bear. Car in the phonebox. George blacking out. Paul blacking out. John puking his guts. And then. 

  
  


MILK. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


SOMETHING LIKE THAT. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


A whole SEA of it. 

  
  
  
  


Ringo felt a shiver down his spine as his memory came back to him in fucking _annoying_ flashbacks, running high off his sugar rush arse down the hospital hallways, tightrope-walking on the railings and rolling down the stairs. And then there were the _handssssssss._ Long, nimble fingers that grabbed at his hair and his cock and wet his face when he got pulled forward to K I S S. The lips, neck, ears, and right on the big fat _nub_ of— 

Ringo felt a sudden wetness in his pants. Because he shat himself. George drew the shower curtain back as Ringo was stripping off his trousers. 

“Oh,” George said, glimpsing Ringo’s huge boner. “Nice view.”

“Oh yeah?” Ringo said, mouth suddenly going as dry as a desert, “Nice going. I’m never gonna get it down.”

 _“You’re_ never gonna get it down?” George laughed. “C’mere.”

Ringo went over and looked in the tub. The tip of George’s cock was stood straight up above the bubbles and next to the bump. It was like a street lamp next to a very big car. 

“.......................holy shit.” Ringo said in awe. 

“I _know,”_ George said in equal awe. “If Baby kicks it down, we’re never gonna have another one. Enjoy them while they last.”

“He.”

George looked up at him. “What?”

“Ya didn’t hear?” Ringo got on his knees awkwardly and took George’s hand. “We’re having a boy.”

George blinked at him, his mouth falling open. Then he let out a cry of joy and hugged Ringo, pulling him right into the tub. 

* * *

After they’d helped each other outta there, put on fresh gowns and milk pads and underwear and shit, they sat facing each other on the bed. Ringo licked the dry inside of his own dry mouth as he put his hands on George’s bump. 

“Okay,” said Ringo, thinking of names. “How bout Harold.”

“I’ve got enough Harolds _and_ Harrys in me life...” George sighed. “You too.”

“Eh, it’s jus the one.”

“Mhm. How bout Richard?”

“Now I dunno where that guy is.”

“I meant after you, darlin.”

“Ohhh. Okay….. but why not George Junior?”

“There can be only one,” George replied, tapping Ringo’s chin playfully. He adjusted his gown around his legs and turned away so he could lean back into the pillows. “And let’s not do that _Junior_ biz. He’s his own person.”

“True, true,” Ringo nodded. He licked his lips. “So uh……... I’m guessin John and Paul are definitely out?”

“No way we’re naming Baby after _Macca,”_ George shuddered. “Or Lenny.”

“Ooh, I like the name Lenny!"

“What, _Lenny_ Harrison-Starkey?” 

Ringo stopped. _Harrison-Starkey?????_ By the end of this year he was sure his heart would burst. He fiddled with his pinky ring. 

“Maybe somethin ending with the letter ‘Y’,” Ringo said. “Cute, ain’t it?”

“The day _John’s_ cute is the day that Jules grows taller than him,” George laughed. “But let’s not inflate his ego.”

Ringo laughed too. “Right.” 

All was well after that. But Ringo still had a dry mouth. He and George talked incessantly about more baby names as they called for Paul to see if he could come pick them up. When Paul drove up to the hospital entrance in his car he had a flurry of blue balloons in the backseat. And John. 

George scowled as he batted some away. Ringo subsequently opened the door of the passenger seat for him. “The hell’s all this for?” 

“You’re having a boy, aren’t you?” John said cheerily. On a second look he and Paul had on matching blue tiaras with sapphires in the middle. John had a blue tie. Paul had a blue suit. Ringo blinked his blue eyes and saw a blue box in the passenger seat with a bright _blue_ cake in it. He blinked his blue eyes again because it was so bright blue. 

“Look,” Paul said, removing the cake so George could rest his legs, “I told Janey, and she’s very happy fer ya!”

“God damn it Paul, I said it was our _secret!”_ said Ringo. 

“She’s me girl; she’s good with secrets,” Paul smiled. “Anyway, she made this fer ya to say sorry cause she’s too busy with her new movie at the mo to come over.”

Paul then dumped the cake on George and nearly smashed it open because of the roundness of his belly. George let out a groan. 

“Good _Lord,_ if you’re throwin a fuckin gender reveal party—”

“Relax,” John laughed. “It’ll just be the seven of us!”

“SEVEN?” George yelled. 

“Four of us, Cynnie, Julian, AND Baby Harri-Starkey," said John. “Plus, we got a cake!”

"That's _already_ blue on the outside," Ringo remarked. 

"It's still cake!" sang Paul. 

What George really wanted was to go home and sleep. And then wake up and get Ringo’s lips back on his forehead. And his nipples. But he figured some slices of blue cake wouldn’t hurt. And since dear Cyn was no longer in the dark, everything should be fine at last. 

Then the car pulled up into Kenwood. The whole ass HOUSE was covered in blue streamers and confetti. So was the front lawn. And the driveway. Julian threw the front door open and ran over to the car, snug in a BLUE dinosaur onesie. 

“Daddyyyy!!” 

“Ey chappie!” John scooped him up and spun him around. “Looking mighty handsome in tha! Say hi to yer uncles!”

George hated how little energy he had left to deal with this bullshit. He could barely reach Julian when it was his turn to get a hug, but even then Jules had just hugged his bump. Paul had even pulled out his chair for him. Cyn kept fussing over him: was he comfy, did he want a cuppa, did he need anything? And Ringo kept their hands together the whole time. He teared up when Paul lifted Jane’s cake out of its box and cut it to reveal even more blueness within. It tasted really good, too. He wiped his eyes with his napkin and smeared azure icing all over his face. He then excused himself to the loo and cried it all off.

A moment passed. Then there was a knock at the door. Oddly, the first person to come to his mind was little Julian. He stood up and immediately unlocked it, only to find Ringo’s blue eyes staring up at him.

“You alright?” Ringo asked immediately. 

“How long was I gone?” 

“Ten minutes or so,” Ringo stood aside. “I know that technically ain’t forever, but— “

“No wait,” George took his hand. “C’mere for a bit.”

Ringo didn’t even hesitate to bolt the door behind them. The way he smelled (whiskey and sugar) burned George’s nose even more than usual, so he sat himself back on the loo cover, stretching out his and Ringo’s arms. 

“Ya need somethin, luv?” Ringo smirked naughtily as he followed him over. “Or did you just wanna have some lone time?”

“Oh, you…. dork,” he said. “You’re a fuckin _dork._ Ye made me forget.”

“Guilty as charged.”

“But now that you say it, lone time _does_ sound nice,” George decided. He leant forward and kissed Ringo’s lips, tongue darting out to lick. Ringo made a low moan and cupped George’s face as he returned it passionately. George leaned back against the toilet. 

“Wait, here?” Ringo said, still close.

“Here,” George nodded. Under his ass the toilet lid then squeaked noisily. It made him cringe.

Ringo cringed too. He looked nervously at the door, and then back at George. And at the door again. Everything was quiet enough to hear footsteps. Then another knock. They both jumped. 

“....boys?” asked Cyn. “Everything okay in there?”

Ringo came to his senses first. “Yeah we are, George just had a bit of a…. problem.”

“Oh, never mind me then!” she said, chuckling. “Don’t worry George, that’s perfectly normal! Sometimes you just need to eat more fibre or drink more water.”

George was confused for a moment. Then shit hit the fan. The fan was his brain. 

“Oh, okay!” He said.

“Guess we need to get you more water then!” Ringo chuckled. Cyn, too.

“I could bring you some if you like— “

“Yes please!” George said. At the sound of her footsteps he surged back onto Ringo and kissed him hard.

“Georgie, w-wait— mmhphhh,” Ringo sputtered as he got on his knees. “Not _here._ It surely isn’t comfy, is it?”

“Course not, so be quick,” George said as he pulled his top over his head. Then he threw it aside and jut his majestic tits out at him. 

“Uhhhhhhh.”

“Go on,” George urged. He undid his heavy milk-padded bra and positioned himself free and loose in front of him. “Jus squeeze me.”

“So Paul,” said John, cutting Julian a slice of cake, “Did ye call yer father?”

“Not really, we’re just good friends.”

“Oh, ha _ha.”_

Paul let out a long chuckle as he sipped his glass of whiskey. 

“No seriously,” John said. “How is he?”

THEN KENWOOD HOUSE EXPLODED WITH A LOUD GIGANTUOUS _MOAN._ Paul spat out his whiskey. John threw the knife at a wall. Julian screamed. And Cyn dropped the cup of water she was holding. 

“What the fuck,” whispered Paul.

“Oh my god,” said Cyn.

“WHAT WAS THAT!” cried Julian, jumping on John and burying his face in his shirt. 

“Oh no,” John rolled his eyes. “That blue-eyed son of a b—”

* * *

George and Ringo were giggling like arseholes when the door finally came unlocked. The toilet, previously sparkling clean and smelling like lavender, was now covered in liquid cheese. As was George's front. And the whole of Ringo. 

"Jesus _Christ,"_ said John. Then he looked at the glass cabinet that held his and Cyn's collection of decorative soaps. It was pristine. "Oh, never mind."

"Why am I not surprised," Paul said curtly, though he stared at George's naked tits a bit too much for Ringo's liking. He said something about going to help Cyn find cleaning stuff and shuffled off. Julian poked his little head in and promptly had his eyes covered with his father's hand. 

"I thought you'd at least do it in the tub," John said, turning to wrestle a fussing Jules. "Calm _down,_ Julesy!"

"Sorry," Ringo said cheekily. He licked the drops of it that fell on his lips. AND THEN 

"It was an accident!" George said innocently. "Ritchie was jus helpin me out!"

"What's goin onnnnn," whined Julian. 

"Nothin," John said. "Go find Mummy," and then shooed his son away. He stepped in and locked the door to keep him out. He put his hands on his hips. 

"Sorry," George sighed.

"Whatever," John said. "Nobody uses this loo anyway..." Then he looked at Ringo again. "Oh, Ritchie, fuuuckKkKKkjfuiefgeugfuqebhfjhvideidxic fm,/;l.bv g[;'defrtyujhygtrwgn bb vgh33fweSHBShjkkwrejkerjklqw,fjbhw."

Ringo blinked. John suddenly looked like a Japanese anime. And his hair was sunshine, lollipops and rainbowsSSSSSSSSSSSS. And he was standing in the Garden of Eden. He turned to look at George. He looked like a pregnant anime GOD, sitting on a yellow eggplant. What the fuck!!

"OWOOOOOO?" Ringo said, feeling his eyes grow BIG. 

"Oh my god, don't track that in my housekdszkszjkdsajseklewk3jwqwddemejkdejkuibo34qnx8oy42 3u9c4bqi'np,olj2,sm,uhjmyhtnri

Ringo blinked. And then he gasped. He was no longer in Kenwood. And he was butt-ass naked. Again. And his mouth was dry. Again. Fuck you. How dare you. Again. 

"George???" Ringo sat up and yelled. He was on the sofa in his own flat, and smelt like cheesecheesecheesecheeseCHEESE. He took off into their bedroom, but found it empty. The bed was neatly made. The laundry basket was by the door. The curtains were drawn. 

Ringo was about to panic when he heard chuckling coming from their bathroom. The door was ajar and it smelt like.........

"Ritchie?" 

Ringo burst in. George was sitting peacefully in the tub. He chuckled some more at Ringo's exposed monster and the surprised look on his face. 

"Hi."

"Hey." Ringo rushed over and knelt at the tub's side. The water had rose petals in it. He blinked, not trusting his eyes, but they were still there. 

"Cyn gave me some of the ones she was growin," George explained. He shut his eyes as he sunk lower into the water and hummed contentedly, hands on his bump. Ringo smiled, but then he still smelt of cheese. 

"Georgie, what _happened?"_

"Mmm?"

"At Lenny's house. After I, uh, squeezed you......"

George's serene grin disappeared. "You don't remember?"

"Uhhh, no?...."

"No, of course ya don't," George lowered his knees underwater. "How could you have?"

"What d'you mean? What'd I do?"

"No, Ritchie, there's no way you could have," George chuckled embarrassedly. "You blacked out."

"There seems to be quite a lotta that these days."

"Oh yeah," George popped a bubble that floated up. "John and Paul helped bring you back immediately. You woke up for a bit and coughed quite a lot, so we took off yer clothes because they smelt like shit."

"What d'you mean? I smelt like cheese," Ringo said, missing the point. But he rested his chin on the rim and looked up at George. "Are you okay?"

"I'm good. Ya definitely helped take the _weight_ off me chest."

Ringo then remembered that fuckin glorious spray of yellow, halleFUCKINlujah. His vision went yellow. His mouth was yellow. No more blue. Only the colour of LIFE. Now how cheesy's _that?_

"You're... welcome?"  
  
"Oh, I'm very welcome," said George. Then he sat up. "You want in?"

Ringo climbed into the tub. He would've cleaned himself, if he were not completely mesmerised. He'd been around enough pregnant ladies and doctors as a kid to recognise the... what's the word. Light. Lumines— no. _Glow._ George simply _glowed._ His eyes, though Ringo couldn't see them properly in the angle they're both sitting at, seem even more twinkly than ever. His skin just seemed softer. His smile was wider. And Ringo is very aware of his heart blacking out in his chest because what'd he done to deserve someone so beautiful? Drum??? 

And then there was the trickling of water. George moved forward, took his cheek in one hand, and kissed him. Ringo's heart resumed beating like one, and he kissed back. They kissed till their feet pruned and fingers wrinkled. And after that it was bedtime. Soft bedtime. They sat under the covers together.

"Did Paul do anythin gross," Ringo said, wanting something off _his_ chest. "Not that I don't trust him, it's just that he's a randy bitch."

"Paul ain't queer," George smacked him gently. "And the day I'll let him near me is the day—" he paused to think. "Nah."

Ringo chuckled. 

“What d’you want for yer birthday?” George asked.

“You."

George laughed. He kissed his cheek. “You already have me.”

“I still want you,” Ringo turned so he could return it to his lips, and then they held each other. Everything was quiet except for their hushed breathing into each other’s mouths. “You, and Baby... that's all I want.”

George hummed happily as Ringo moved up to place their foreheads together. “And I thought you’d just like if I made yer breakfast.”

“That, too,” Ringo kissed George’s bottom lip. “I’m kiddin. You’re already giving me the best gift ever.”

Surprisingly, George pouted at this. “I wouldn’t mind! You love my breakfasts.”

“Course I do. But the last thing I want is for ye to trouble yourself.”

"But it's yer birthday. I wanna make you happy."

"I'm _already_ happy. I've got you."

George was silent for a moment. Then a tear spilt from his eye. Ringo hurriedly kissed it and held him as best as he could reach. 

"Oh luvie, what's—"

"You know," George smiled against his neck. "I'll never get over the way you love me."

* * *

Jane was off shooting that movie on the morning of Ringo’s birthday too. And Cyn was due back for a follow-up doctor's appointment later in the day, so George had suggested them four Beatles meet for brunch in Whaddon House. But first Paul went to pick up John, who was strolling out of Kenwood just as he approached. 

“Did you get him a present?” John asked as Paul drove up. 

“No, I just thought celebrating would be nice enough—”

“Oh thank _god._ I didn’t either,” John opened the car door. Then he shouted. “Wait!”

John ran back into his house. There were several unspecified loud noises before he came running back out with his sleeping son in his arms.

Paul’s eyes lit up. “Oh, we gots company!”

“I promised him I’d play,” John said. “And he can use cutlery now, so he won’t be any trouble.”

“Wha?” Julian said, blearily opening his eyes. “Unca Paul?”

“Hi Jules,” said Paul, stepping on the gas. “It’s yer Uncle Ringo’s birthday today and we’re going to see him!”

“Why?” said Julian.

“Because he’s our friend and we luuuuuuve him,” said John. “And also cause if we don’t, Uncle George will kick our ass.”

“What’s ass?”

“Yer bum,” said Paul. Then he BROfisted John like best buds. Yikes. Ok that’s enough Mclennon for now. 

George and Ringo set the table. Because there was no need for secrecy anymore, there was no need for parkas and suffocating binding of George’s thicc boobs. Instead he was comfortable in his trusty bathrobe that showed Ringo little mercy. Everytime Ringo started slacking off he’d cast his eyes on George, who’d pull open the top of the robe to reveal a bulging lacy breast. And then Ringo would crank into overdrive. God damn. If these didn’t disappear after the birth of their boy, getting Ringo to do chores would be a snap. 

In fact, the whole pregnancy AND the dipshit had turned George into even _more_ of a pleasure addict than ever. He found himself sticking EVERYTHING up his arsehole. He'd found that eating spicy food turned him _all_ the way on. He stood in front of the mirror with his tits and cock out and milked himself dry. Ringo had nearly blacked out _again_ when he came back to their bathroom mirror and found it absolutely COATED in cheese and come. But it was a _sexy_ blackout. How you like me now?

Ringo was the best gosh darn supportive-ass boyfriend. He brought George novels to read in bed and _lots_ of Anaïs Nin. He had a plush chaise lounge made and set up in the red-purple nursery so George'd have somewhere to sit when he nursed the baby. And George had broken it in nursing Ringo every night since they got home from cheese land. This often unfortunately ended with Ringo blacking out from pure sugar rush. But don't worry. George had taken matters into his own hands. And presently, there was no food in their fridge.

Paul stayed with George as John, Julian and Ringo went to get takeaways from a nearby diner. 

“Think they have cake?” said John. 

“Oh, I’m gettin cake later,” Ringo winked. John, who was blind as hell, just nodded. Julian dragged his feet as he walked.

“Now Julesy, don’t do that,” John pulled him along.

“It’s hot,” Julian complained. He reached up to be carried. “I want ice-cream.”

“I want ice-cream too,” said Ringo. “I’ll buy you one, Jules.” 

“Jesus Ritchie, you’ll spoil him,” John said, picking his son up. “That’s _my_ job. You’ll get yer turn.”

Ringo grinned. The diner server was an old geezer in a cap and thick specs. Ringo did a double take. He could easily pass for that bloke from the paint store.

“Hello there chaps. What can I getcha?”

“Four regular breakfasts,” John said. 

“And three bananas,” Ringo added. “Two fishcakes, fried carrot sticks, apple pie with extra apples, blackberry jam, vegetable curry, Italian bread, bread soup, marmalade and peanut butter sandwich, gingerbread, gumdrops, fifteen bags of jelly babies and two chocolate popsicles.”

“Make that _three_ chocolate popsicles,” John nodded.

“Jesus, we’re hungry aren’t we,” the server laughed. “Okay. Tea, or Milo?”

“Tea,” John said. “What’re we, kids?”

“Ye seem to have one on you,” the server said, gesturing to Julian.

“Tea please,” said Julian. The server jumped back in fake shock. So did John, but without the fake.

“But Jules, ya don’t like tea!”

“I’m a big boy now,” Julian said, hands on his hips. John simply chuckled. Ringo suddenly felt some sort of wonder in his heart. Someday _he’d_ be like that— 

And then his mouth turned dry. He drank his tea straight from the cup after he’d got it, but it was still dry. He added sugar to it when he got their feast home, but the added sweetness did nothing for him. He tried drinking whiskey and then shockingly, spewed it out all over the sink. What the fuck?????

“Happy birthday Bongo!” Paul whooped from the table, having added said whiskey to everything on his plate. “Happeh twenty- _urp_ \- shit, how old are ye?”

“Fifty-two,” George joked, taking a sip of tea. Ringo laughed. Then he rinsed his mouth in the sink, but then something still felt wrong. Empty. 

“Unca Ringo fifty-two?” asked Julian. 

“Yeah,” Ringo said, making his way back anyway, “Just like yer daddy.”

John threw the jam saucer at his head. Ringo dodged with a wicked laugh, but then whipped open the fridge in what seemed the first time in weeks. There had to be something to take away the dryness. It was like fuckin having TB again: not being able to keep anything down, even water. But there was only

M I L K. 

wait. No. C H E E S E. Cha cha boom. 

_The entire fridge was yellow._ Bottles, jars, containers and even VASES of that stuff took up all the space in the fridge. Even the egg-holes. No wonder there was no more fuckin food. Ringo started getting a boner. Oh fuck. He was so fucked. He clamped his hand down on it and slammed the door shut. 

“Ah!” George startled, dropping his spoon. “What’s goin on?”

“Nothin,” Ringo said quickly, and ran into the loo. He ripped off his pants and sat on the toilet with his rampant boner for like five minutes before he decided he'd better take care of it. He put both hands around it. He thought of the CHEESE and his mouth went even drier than before. Then he thought of George, but the thought was too pure. Because in that thought they're both wearing white. They have roses in their hair. They're holding hands and laughing. There's no one else around except for a little boy sitting between them, also with roses in his hair. And George has never looked happier in his life. 

Ringo then shat himself. 

* * *

The good news was that his boner instantly died. He wiped his ass and walked halfway back out before realising that he forgot his pants. He put on his pants and sat back at the table quietly. He didn't see George leaning over and damn near screamed when he landed a peck to his head.   
  
And then Julian picked up the bread knife. 

“JULES! _NO!”_ screamed John. He lunged forward and snatched it out of his son’s hand. “This is very sharp and _very_ dangerous, okay?”

Jules pouted. “Mummy use all the time.” 

“Mummy _knows_ how to use it,” John pointed out. “You don’t.”

“Then I learn!”

“No!”

 _“You_ learn!”

“I already know how!”

“Then you teach me!”

John sighed. Paul shook the table as he giggled. George burst out laughing. Ringo shot up and came running back with more plates of diner takeaway.

“Daddy,” Julian said, giving up on getting the knife back, “Can you tell me the Hansel Gretel story again?”

John sighed again. He took a very long sip of his tea. Julian took no notice of this and tugged on his sleeve. “Daddy pleaseeeeee.”

“I told you that story every night this week.”

“Pretty pleaseeeeeeeeeeee!”

“I know a story, Jules,” Paul said brightly. “Now it’s not your Hansel and Gretel, but—”

“No, I wanna Hansel Gretel,” said Julian. “I like the candy house and dead witch.”

Paul, George and Ringo started giggling. John on the other hand was starting to get quite alarmed.

“Uh, the witch _always_ dies in these stories, let’s jus tell ye a different one shall we!”

“Hansel Gretel.”

“Y’know Jules, there’s _lots_ of stories in this world. Why d’you keep wanting to hear that one?”

“Cause I like it.”

“Till the point it’s the only thing ye wanna hear?” Ringo asked. “Don’t it get bit old?”

“I _like_ it,” Julian repeated. His little mouth turned into a pout. “Daddy like it too.”

“Yeah Jules, but now Daddy wants to tell you a _new_ story,” John said, patting his head. “This one’s _much_ better than ol’ Hansel, how’sthat— “

“Nooooooo!” said Julian stubbornly. “Dead witch!”

“Okay, I’ll tell it to you,” George said. Everyone looked at him puzzledly, even Julian. But all things must pass, so he sat up and smiled. 

“Oh fine,” John groaned, squashing his jelly baby. “You’d do better than me anyway.”

“Once upon a time there was a land with a great famine and barely any clean water to drink,” George started. “And in the land there lived poor woodcutter and he had two children named Hansel and Gretel. He loved them very much, but his second wife, the children’s evil, _angry_ stepmother, did not.” 

“Leave children in the woods!” prompted Julian. 

“Rude to interrupt,” John shushed. 

“It’s okay, he’s right,” said George. “The stepmother told him that the children slept and drank and ate far too much and if they didn’t get rid of them, the _four_ of them would starve to death. She said they should take them deep into the woods and leave them there. The woodcutter didn’t want to leave them there, but in the end he gave into his wife's plan.”

“Jesus, this is dark,” Paul remarked. 

“Jus you wait,” John sighed. 

“However, Hansel overheard the plan, all of it. He ran to his sister and told her. He assured her that they would be strong, stay together at all costs and find their way home. So he started gettin smart. He collected pocketfuls of, uh, rocks—"

"White pebbles," Julian corrected.

"—white pebbles, and when their parents took them deep into the woods and left them there to die, Hansel and Gretel simply followed the trail of white pebbles he'd been leaving the entire way. They got home just as the moon rose. Their stepmother was _furious."_

John popped open a whiskey bottle then. He poured everyone a glass except for Jules and George.

"The stepmother told the woodcutter that they didn't leave the children far enough from their cottage, so the next morning they had to go _further._ Hansel heard this too, but there were no more pebbles. So the next morning he stole a loaf of bread and left a trail of breadcrumbs as their parents took them deeper and _deeper_ into the woods."

"How'd this get published?" Paul said, shocked. 

"Did ya not grow up with fairy tales," asked Ringo. 

"Me dad sang us to sleep," Paul shook his head. "And when we asked fer stories we got stories of ol Jim puttin his John Adams in the—"

"Unca Paul! Rude to intarupt," Julian shushed. Paul made a zipping motion at his lips. 

"When their parents left, Hansel and Gretel turned to follow the breadcrumbs. But it was gone. It had been eaten by birds, and now they were lost."

Paul gasped. So did Julian, even though he'd heard this bit a thousand times over.

"Hansel and Gretel wandered around the woods for days and days, getting hungrier and hungrier. Then one day, they chased a beautiful white bird flying between the trees. The bird landed on the roof of a cottage. They thought for a moment it must be their home, but when they got closer, the cottage was the biggest, most beautifully sweet cottage built of gingerbread, cake, pink icing, candied strawberries, and marzipan. And the window panes were _sugar. "_

Ringo's throat started to itch.

"Hansel and Gretel were so hungry and tired that they climbed up the cottage and started eating the roof, which was made of chocolate biscuits. They ate and ate and ate, and then suddenly—"

"THE WITCH!" Julian yelled. 

"An old woman came out the door. She had a walking stick and hair as fine as spider thread. Hansel and Gretel scrambled off the roof and said they were so sorry they ate her roof. The old woman said, however, that it was fine. She invited them in for warm food and beds. So they went in and were indeed treated to more sweets and the savouriest of stews that night....."

Julian bounced with anticipation. Paul was on the edge of his seat. Ringo's whiskey started smelling funny. 

".....and the night after that," George continued. "And the week, and year and decade after that. Hansel and Gretel explained to the witch that their parents hadn't wanted them. They had brought them out into a dangerous place and left them to starve and die. The old woman was having none of that. She opened her arms and her cottage and gave them a big hug."

Ringo put down his glass. Julian's mouth hung open in confusion. 

"That's not how the story goes," John chuckled. 

"Well I'm the one who's tellin it," George retorted. "The old woman had _always_ wanted children. But since she was a witch, no one would marry her. She didn't want to magic a child up from snow or wood or make dolls come to life simply because it would never be as real as having a human child. So she took Hansel and Gretel into her heart, and fed them well. She sewed their clothes out of sugar. She told them stories at bedtime and kissed them on their heads. She thought them to read and cook and sing and grow flowers and how to be good people."

Paul suddenly sniffled. 

"But she's a witch," Julian said. "And she _dies."_

"Oh, of course she died. She was old," George replied. He stroked his bump slowly over his robe. "When she died Hansel and Gretel were very sad. They buried her in the garden behind the candy cottage and planted a sugar tree over her."

"Okay cool," John said, "But now that's _really_ not how the story goes."

"Rude to interrupt," George smirked. "They planted a tree over her, and it was the strongest, sweetest tree in all the land. Birds of every colour flocked to it. It soon grew big and tall with Hansel and Gretel's care, and many birds laid their eggs inside. They'd given a home to all those birds. The end."

Paul was now sobbing. He blew his nose into his tie and bawled. Ringo felt love pounding right in his heart. John was staring wide-eyed. But Julian just seemed bored. 

"Gretel pushed the witch into oven," he sulked.

"In my version, she loved her," George said simply. 

"But...." Julian sighed dramatically. "I need loo."

Ringo chuckled. He took a swig of his whiskey, but as Julian rounded the corner for the loo Ringo threw up right in Paul's face. 

"UhMm!" he said. "What the _fuck."_  
  
"Ah fuck, I'm sorry," Ringo babbled, grabbing a napkin for him. 

"Unca Georgeeeee," Julian called from the hallway. "I can't turn on the light."

"Oh, shit," George heaved himself up and made for him. "Hold it there, Jules!"

And John. He stared at Ringo suspiciously. Ringo looked back. He stood up and walked with his head in his hands to the fridge. What the fuck was wrong with him??? He used to drink JUGS of that stuff easy peasy. Until he started drinking _George's_ jugs. Every night. 

“Oh my god,” said Ringo. “It’s cause I drank the stuff.”

John and Paul, both apparently now hard of hearing, came over and made Ringo repeat himself. 

"I keep spitting out me whiskey," Ringo said slowly, his back to the fridge door, "cause I drank the _stuff."_

“What?” John said to the counter because he was blind. 

Paul rose an eyebrow. “What stuff?”

“The _milk,”_ Ringo smashed his whiskey glass on John's head. “I drank George’s milk and now I can’t drink alcohol.”

 _“What???”_ said John.

 _“How???”_ said Paul at the same time. 

“Oh my _god,”_ John scrunched up his face. “You fuckin simp! Even _I_ didn’t drink Cynnie’s boobies.”

“I had to! They were too heavy fer him!” said Ringo. “But I gots no idea why I can’t drink anymore because of this!” He turned to John. “Can _you_ drink whiskey???”

John looked down at the half-drunk brown glass in his hand. 

“No, _wait,”_ said Ringo. “Did you drink whiskey when Cynthia was preggo? At all?”

Paul looked at John. Ringo looked at John. George, gently rubbing his bump, waddled into the kitchen then and also looked at John. John crossed his eyes. And then threw up all over Paul.

“What the FUCK," he complained. "Why is it always me!!!!!!!!”

“Sorry Paulie,” John wiped his mouth. “Y’all made me swallow the wrong way.”

“But did you?????” Ringo pressed on. 

“What’re you talkin about?” George asked, starting to look worried. 

“So, Georgie,” Ringo started smoothly. “Remember that night at the hos— “

“That’s what happened every time I tried drinkin,” John spoke at last in a low voice. “I jus _couldn’t._ I jus sicked it right back up.”

Everyone was silent. A toilet flushed loudly.

“But you _didn’t_ suck on Cyn’s boobs,” Paul said bluntly. 

“WHAT,” George turned terribly pink in the face. Ringo went to him.

“Sure I didn’t. But what’s that got to do with _anythin?”_ said John. “I was bout to become a _dad._ I was the other hand in bringin Jules to life. I jus— oh fuck, it was _somethin else,_ alright?”

Everybody shut up. John took a deep breath, and turned to face the sink. Paul turned him around to face Ringo and George. 

“Seein her body change scared the fuck outta me too, mate. I couldn’t stop thinkin bout her,” he said. “But most of all I couldn’t stop thinkin bout my boy. Everything would change. And then when I couldn’t turn to the gin and beer and shit to keep me _not_ thinkin bout him, them….” John shook his head. “I just… became a dad.” 

George blinked. Ringo noticed he was blinking away tears. He held onto his hand. 

“Then Julian got born, and, uh, I had to wait three days to see him, remember? Longest three days of me life. Then the week after that we went to that pub and I sipped yer beer thinkin it was tea,” he said to Paul. “And when I realised what I’d done, I’d drank it all and it was okay.”

George’s fingers curled around Ringo’s. His fingers had gotten fleshier, stronger. 

“And then I went back to Jules. And when I saw him sleeping in his little crib? I had this really proud feeling in my….” he motioned to his heart. And patted it. “And then it was _really_ all okay.” John was blinking at top speed. He set his glass on the counter and wiped his eyes. 

“Oh, Johnny,” Paul said, hand on his shoulder. “That’s _beautiful.”_

“No it ain’t. I got diarrhoea the next day and— “

“I think he meant the Jules bit,” George cut in. His mouth turned up in a smile. “You’re good, John.”

“At what?”

“Ya tell a mean story,” he said. He patted John’s hand. And unexpectedly, John threw his arms around George. Ringo laughed. Paul looked away, chuckling and scraping vomit off him.

Julian came running into the kitchen then. “Daddy?”

Everyone parted to let him through. John pulled himself together and bent to his knees, ruffling Jules’ hair. 

“Yeah, Julesy?”

“There’s people at the door.” 

“What?” George said, eyes narrowing. He turned sharply to the exit. And reached for Ringo’s other frozen hand when he indeed heard the doorbell. 

“You expectin people?” Paul asked. 

George backed into the counter. "No."

“Uh,” John said. “You didn’t open the door, did ya Jules?

Jules shook his head.

“Did you look through the peephole?”

“What’s peephole?”

“Ah, no, okay, did you ask who it was?” 

“Yeah!” said Julian. “They said they’re called Lou-ise and Harold.”


	10. yer old dads

George’s chest felt like a brick. Two bricks. And the left one was going to explode. He’d waited anxiously for them to reply but hadn’t gotten one, so he’d forgotten all about the postcard as the days passed. 

How stupid of him. He was _their_ fuckin baby. He should’ve known they would just drop everything and run right over. Not that he wasn’t secretly a little grateful, but why NOW? Now, during Ringo’s birthday party, where Paul and the floor were covered in vomit and whiskey, where the fridge was full of cheese milk and where he himself was wearing lingerie??? 

“It’s okay, calm down,” Ringo said as the doorbell rang again. 

George braced himself against the counter. “I am calm!”

“I was talkin to me,” Ringo then threw up all over Paul. 

“AM I A FUCKIN CHUCK BUCKET????” he yelled, pulling his shirt over his head. It was completely soaked with puke and smelt so bad George’s own guts started churning. He walked quickly out of the kitchen.

“Where’re you goin?” John asked.

“I have to put on fuckin clothes!” 

“But you look fine,” Paul said, tossing his sodding shirt in the sink. “And they’re yer fuckin parents! Is somebody gonna get the door or what???”

George saw Ringo gulp before he turned down the hall and locked their bedroom door.

“Who’s Lou-ise and Harold?” Julian asked innocently. 

“Well Jules,” said Ringo. “They’re either my future relatives or the reason I’ll be in the ground by next week.”

Then there was the sound of a door opening. George pulled off his robe and practically knocked the closet over. He grabbed a black turtleneck and a pair of joggers that smelt of cheese mixed with buttcrack. 

“George?” came his mother’s voice.

George pulled on the clothes and opened the door. Everyone stared at him. He stared back, and then noticed that it was because his turtleneck was very particularly tight around his boobs. 

“Stop starin at me tits,” he warned.

Everyone except his parents and Julian quickly looked away. His father was blinking rapidly at his own feet, his hand on Ringo’s shoulder. And somehow Ringo seemed even smaller than usual.

“Georgie,” Mum said, walking over with her arms open. When they wrapped around his back and froze George wished wished wished he’d put his robe back on. But still she hugged him. She rubbed his back, too, and he nearly sobbed right there and then with how much he’d missed her.

“Oh! You’re... “ she looked down at the new curves and bumps of his body. Or more accurately, his new body. Nothing about him neck-down resembled that of a bloke’s anymore. “You’re really up the duff.”

 _OF COURSE HE FUCKING WAS!!!!!!_ Why would he kid them about something like that????? He felt a familiar ache somewhere just above his stomach. Paul, shirtless and leaning over Julian’s chair, looked at him with his lips together and sad eyes. It was unmistakable sympathy, which he hated. But now George didn’t even know if he had the capacity to hate it like this. He certainly didn’t feel like it anymore.

“I’m up the duff,” he replied defeatedly.

Everything was silent save for the little mumbles that Jules made. Paul shoved some carrot sticks into his hands for him to chew, and then it was totally uncomfortably silent. 

John emerged from the kitchen then. “Would you like some whiskey,” John filled a glass and offered it to Dad. Dad took it and swigged it down the hatch. He never drank whiskey. This filled George with a sense of horribleness that comes from knowing shit’s bout to get blown through the roof. Yes, I am a writer. Wowee. 

“… oh, Good Lord, I’m sorry,” Mum took her hands off him. “I’m— we’re still—” she motioned to his bump. “We’d thought we’d read it wrong and it was from your sister.”

“I don’t blame you,” said George. He tried glancing at Ringo for comfort, but Ringo was in an intense staring match with Dad, who still held the empty whiskey glass. Ringo reached over gingerly and refilled it, never breaking eye contact. 

“Well I don’t blame you either,” Mum said, and cupped his face. “If I’d— well, known…” she looked down at the bump between them. “You know I would’ve told you.”

“Course.”

“I would’ve. How far along are— _Harold!_ Yer son’s knocked up! Get over here!”

Dad, sipping his whiskey, shuffled towards them. The moment he took his hand off Ringo’s shoulder, Ringo stumbled backwards and fainted. Paul caught him just before he hit the floor, and John rushed over to help. Julian chewed his carrot sticks loudly.

“Hi Dad.”

“Say somethin Harold, he’s worried.”

“I was gonna,” he told Mum. “You…… you been eatin alright?”

“Uhhhhh.”

“Ritchie got all his cravings alright,” John said, pouring whiskey on Ringo’s face. Mum and Dad glanced over to the table then, laid with birthday feast. 

“Is that a curry?” Dad asked. 

“Yeah.”

“You got a spare bowl?”

Everyone sat at the table awkwardly. And so quietly it was starting to get barmy. Especially since John and Paul weren’t used to silence. They were now trying to get drunk as discreetly as possible, pouring glasses after glasses of whiskey under the table. 

Barely moments ago they’d all been enjoying their god damn selves. Ringo wasn’t a wet pile of goo, George wasn’t suffering from a pounding headache, Paul didn’t look like he was absolutely smashed, John was relatively sane and Julian wasn’t covered in blackberries from a little accident with the jam pot. Ringo had cleaned him up the best he could, but in the end Julian sat shirtless on John’s lap, munching his second slice of apple pie.

“What a feast,” Mum remarked, hands still on her handbag. 

“It’s me birthday,” Ringo said quietly.

“Oh, happy birthday lad,” Dad raised his glass at him. “How old are ya? 30?”

“..............25.”

Dad blinked. But he nodded and toasted Ringo’s teacup. Silence resumed over the table.

“Uhhhhhh, I’m also 25,” John said after a while. 

“Yer 24,” slurred Paul. 

“I’m 25 in November.”

“October."

“Oh, right,” said John. He turned to his son. “Spare me a bite, Juleseh?”

“This is Julian?” Mum said, now smiling. She set her handbag aside at last. “That can’t be! He’s so big now!”

“Course he is, Lou, he’s 2,” said Dad. “Who’d ya think it was?”

Mum didn’t answer that. She leaned forward just a little bit. “Julian?”

Jules nodded, his mouth full. John ruffled his hair. 

“He looks just like ye, John.”

“No, _I_ look just like him,” John chuckled. “That’s why I’m the cute one.”

Paul promptly threw whiskey in his face. Ringo and Mum and Dad burst out in peals of giggles, but suddenly Ringo just shut down. He got up, grabbed the rag from the counter and started wiping the brown spots. 

“Uh, Mum,” George said, his temples burning with ache and questions, “Why didn’t you write me back?”

Mum looked startled for a moment. “Sorry, love?”

“I thought you’d at least write me back if you were visiting,” George fought not to wince. “Especially since you _reread_ it so many times.”

Everything was silent. Except for Dad slurping vegetable curry. 

“I’d thought— first I thought you didn’t write back cause it got mashed with everyone else who writes to ye,” he said. “But now here you are and all you can say is that ye thought I was _her?”_

There was a clink of plates being shifted over as Paul and Ringo both shot their arms over to pass him napkins. It was then that George noticed the tears falling from his eyes.

“Sweetheart,” Mum said, turning towards him. “That’s not what we meant to do.”

“Look, I understand,” George held himself like a shield. “I’m a bloke, I have a boyfriend, and all of a sudden I’m _pregnant_ outta nowhere. And now you see it up front and centre and it’s real an I smell like shit. I _get_ it, Mum, I do. You’ve got plenty reason to be fuckin disgusted—”

“George! We’re not _disgusted,”_ Mum said, giving Dad a quick jab in the ribs. She even sounded shocked that he’d think of such things. “We’re just a bit… confused.”

No one spoke. It was the truth, anyway. Julian tried to get out of John’s lap, but was held there firmly with John’s thicc thighs. 

“Well I’m confused too,” George said to break the silence. “Apparently I don’t have a womb.”

“You don’t?” Mum said. 

“Uh, no.”

“...............................so is it in yer arse?” asked Dad.

Everyone looked down at the big bump that was George’s stomach.

“Oh, never mind,” he said sheepishly. "How far along are you again?"

"Nearly 5 months."

"What??" Dad looked at Mum. Mum looked at Dad. George looked at Ringo for support. Ringo looked wearily at the whiskey bottle. Julian looked at John eating his pie. Paul looked in two directions at once because he was drunk.

"What," George sighed.

"No, it's just...." Dad paused. "You look kinda big for 4 and a.... half."

"Course he's big, Harold, y'knowwwww," Paul giggled from the table. 

"Well I don't know _this."_

George shrunk back from his gaze. Mum put her arms around his side. 

"Sorry, no, didn't mean anythin bad," Dad raised his two hands in surrender. "I'm just saying that... obviously I’m familiar with seein pregnancy," he nodded at Mum. "And I love you Georgie, but if I ever thought of an expectin bloke, you’re _definitely_ not that bloke.”

There was silence yet again. 

"Oh, _really?"_ Dad finished his whiskey and set it down. Ringo immediately rushed over to refill it, but Dad pulled away. "No thanks lad—"

"Well I didn’t expect this either," George said, feeling his breath catch in his throat again. “I don’t know anythin about this.”

“John,” Mum said gently. “You have a wife—”

“A _wife,”_ said John. 

“I already talked to Cyn,” George felt a horrible heat under his belly and stood up. “She’s giving me tips on what’s comfiest and what stuff I should and shouldn’t do, but I’m still getting it _wrong,”_ he said as the tears flowed again. “I’m a fucking _mess,_ okay? Baby’s probably going to come out from _down there,_ the drugs might _fail_ if I choose to get cut open, we’re expected to go on tour again next year, me tits hurt all the time, and when I _fart_ me own boyfriend blacks the fuck out and it makes me wanna _die!”_

Everyone then looked at Ringo. 

“.....what?” he asked. “......ye need to fart?”

“Yeah,” George nodded. “Cover yer noses.”

* * *

An atom bomb exploded at the dining table. It was utter chaos. The food shook in their plates and crumbs blew everywhere. I'm too tired to describe this at the moment but it was epic. Paul dived under the table with the cloth up his nose. Mum and Dad ducked their faces into their sleeves. John wrapped his hands around Julian’s head and kept them there as he passed the fuck out next to Ringo, who’d just stood there like a dum-dum. 

“Jesus,” said Mum. 

“I told ye so,” George groaned and sat down heavily. 

“Ohhhh, _God!”_ Paul yelled, disentangling himself from the tablecloth. “The _fuck’d_ you eat? That smells even worse than—”

Then Dad threw up all over Paul’s head. 

“OKAY THEN,” Paul said, not even flinching.

“Oh shit, sorry,” said Dad, offering a napkin. But Paul pushed it back to him and indicated his mouth. 

“Daddy???” Julian shook John’s chest. Then he shook Ringo. “Unca Ringo???”

“I think I better get Jane heatin up the bath…” Paul said as he made his way to the sink. Then there was the sound of _him_ puking. George cringed, but figured it was a matter of time. 

Then John sat right up with a gasp. “WHAT THE HELL?????”

“Excuse me,” said George. He reached for his teacup and took a long, long, long sip of tea. 

John took a look at his son. Dad wiping his mouth. Ringo knocked the fuck out next to him, two rings plugged up his nose. And then Paul emerging from the sink in his wet, vomit covered shirt, while he himself was also covered head to toe in vomit.

“Oh,” John said. Then he stepped backwards, threw open the front door, and then absolutely ran the fuck away. Paul followed suit. Julian stared at their retreating backs until John gave a shout. He ran back, scooped Jules up and ran the fuck away again, out of the flat, yelling for Paul to step the FUCK on it.

“As you can see, I don’t get out much anymore,” George said solemnly. He heaved himself back on his feet and went to check on Ringo. His eyes were shut and his mouth was open wide. George poured the rest of his tea down there.

Ringo spluttered and instantly came back to life. George sighed again and turned to leave, but then Ringo stood right up. 

“Why didn’t—” he coughed out some dregs. “Why didn’t you tell me any of this??”

“Didn’t want you worrying any more bout me.”

“I’m _always_ worrying bout you, you fuck!” Ringo said, before remembering about Mum and Dad. He turned to them with his teeth in his lips. Dad was pouring Mum a glass of whiskey.

George sighed. He wanted so badly to lie down. They’d been surprised, of course, the first time he’d brought Ringo back home, but far, far more supportive than he’d ever have thought. By dinnertime Ringo had been chatting with his folks like they'd been old buddies. And now he was like a skittish little maid who’d dropped the china. 

“Um, Mr and Mrs Harrison?” he began, hands clasped together. “I’m _so_ sorry, this usually doesn’t happen. And we’re really much cleaner than this. And I don't drink as much.”

“I’d say,” said Dad. He toasted him. “Ye choose good whiskey, Ritchie.”

Mum chuckled. But Ringo was still so tightly tense. She then looked at George, and quickly motioned for them both to sit down.

“Firstly,” she gave a toast. “Did we forget to say congratulations?”

“Uh,” Ringo squeaked. 

“Thanks,” said George. “It’s a boy.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful!” she seemed genuinely pleased. “Have you thought of any names?”

“Not yet.”

“Jus sayin ye shouldn’t name it after yer old dads,” Dad chuckled. “Pretty sure our Harry’s sick of always gettin me mail. What’s _your_ father’s name, Ritchie?”

“...Harry.”

“See? Definitely not after yer old dads.”

For a while, the conversation went well. Mum and Dad were ravenous, polishing off the rest of Ringo’s birthday feast. But George found that he was doing most of the talking. Ringo sipped at his tea nervously most of the time, even though George had long-ago noticed his empty cup. 

“You want more tea?” he asked, standing up. The other three followed up with him. 

“No luvie, I’ll get it meself!” Ringo yelled, lowering George gently back in by the shoulders. And to his surprise, Mum and Dad had their hands on him too. Dad had even leapt onto the whole-ass table. 

“Um.”

“Thas right, you shouldn’t be movin that much,” Mum said, patting him down. Ringo sprinted into the kitchen. “Or for such little things.”

“I’m barely 5 months in.”

Ringo sprinted back with a full TRAY of tea. He’d even gotten out the nice porcelain teapot and the sugarbowl he swore he didn’t nick from Cyn. 

“I’d guessed you were carryin twins,” she said. “And with how yer body’s not _built_ for a baby…. we’re staying,” Mum nodded firmly. “Don’t worry Georgie, Daddy and I will watch over ye and make sure Baby gets here smoothly.”

“Really?” said Ringo.

“Yes really. Course you’re a good lad, Ritch,” Dad said. “But, uh, I’m sensing that ye don’t exactly know what you’re doin either.”

“W-what makes ya say that?” Ringo asked, pouring tea everywhere but the cups because his hand was shaking. 

“Yeah, we’re stayin,” Dad chuckled. 

George didn’t know what to say. He was smiling, but some part of him was yelling fuckfuckFUCKshit in the back of his brain. But at the moment he just felt very loved, so he smiled. 

“Harold, did we get a hotel?” 

Dad thought. He looked at George’s bump and blinked rapidly. “Uh.”

“Oh, god,” sighed Mum. 

“Ye don’t need some hotel, you can take our bed,” George said. “We’ve been sleepin on the lounge anyway.”

This was a mistake. Mum’s eyes popped out of her skull. 

“....what???” said Dad. 

“It’s a very comfy lounge,” George said quickly. “Ritchie had it specially made and put in the nursery—”

Mum turned to Ringo sharply. “You let him sleep in the lounge??” 

“No Mrs Harrison, I… y'see, I sleep there too—”

“You _both_ sleep on that cramped thing? The hell are you doing in there?”

Ringo looked like he wanted to perish right here right now. George gripped his hand tightly.

“Uh, nothin, no!” George spluttered. “We put it in and it was really comfy, so some nights, mind, not _all_ nights, we jus get in there and—”

“Oh, nevermind,” she waved him off. “George, you better sleep in yer regular bed tonight. Crampy spaces’ll cramp you up.”

“But the sheets will get wet,” George said without thinking.

_“..........what?”_

_“Gladly,”_ said George. “C’mon Ritchie.”

But Ringo didn’t. Instead he broke away and bolted to the hall with all their boxes and started digging. George’s headache instantly resurfaced.

“Ye know lad, it’s really alright,” Dad said, strolling up to Ringo’s box fort. “Now which hotel d’you say's the best here in London?”

“No,” Ringo said, and unfolded a patchwork quilt out of one box. “Our sofa’s a pull-out.”


	11. hot cheese and shit

George returned to their bedroom alone, to the neatly made bed with the stack of novels by the bedside. He’d left  _ Henry and June _ out at the top, which technically doesn’t get published until over 20 years later, but I don’t give a shit. And in a fit of knowing they weren’t alone anymore, George chucked it under the bed, leaving the infinitely more respectable  _ Great Gatsby _ on top. 

Then he stripped off his clothes. He had to wrestle the turtleneck off and practically tear the joggers from his legs because he was sweating so much. He stood in front of the mirror. The lingerie was soaked through and the bulge of his breasts made them look engorged. He’d been thrilled by his own reflection in the morning, but now he looked so oddly mismatched and pathetic. His breasts had grown red and veiny from all the squeezing he did in the morning. He made to rip the lacy bra off in disgust, but the chafe of the milk pads stopped him. If he changed clothes now, wearing it all day would’ve gone to waste. And yet a cold shower had never been more appealing. 

Outside, Ringo was making a hell lot of noise. He heard the sofabed creaking, boxes falling, Dad singing, and oddest of all, the crashing of cutlery. George pressed his ear to the door, where he heard the unmistakable sound of wheels on floor. 

Lord, they had brought suitcases. THIS HAD BEEN THEIR PLAN FROM THE START. 

He wondered if he should be glad or angry. Pregnancy had really fucked up his emotions. He desperately needed to shit, though, so he peeled off the nice knickers and shat. The whole bathroom smelt like shit. He covered his nose and prayed the shit out of the Lord to not make him pass out from his own shit. How absolutely shitty. Now seeing the word ‘shit’ being used so many times in the same paragraph is shitty and annoying ain’t it you shit fucker???? George flushed his huge shit down the bowl, changed the milk pads and washed himself quickly in the sink. Because he was going to give Ringo the best damn pregnant birthday sex of his _ life!!!!! _

Then he emerged from the bathroom and looked at the wall clock. It was five minutes after midnight.

Fuck. 

_ Why the fuck couldn’t he do anything right? _ Was it because Mum and Dad were here??? Oh fuck, how  _ could _ they even fuck with them sleeping just down the hall??? George adjusted his bra as he got under the covers, letting his mind run wild. How long would he be able to hold in his screaming? His whole body was now basically a minefield. And there was also how Ringo was fuckin acting— he’d barely dared to so much as squeak in front of Mum and Dad. He’d seemed even  _ more _ frightened than George himself, and if that wasn’t saying  _ something _ , it should’ve.

And that’s the thing that sent the tears out his eyes again. George turned around, cradling poor Baby with one hand, and buried his face in his pillow. 

A while passed. George wasn’t sure how long, but he and Baby were awake for certain. Baby’s little kicks were warm, as if to remind him that he wasn’t truly alone. It was for the greater good. George closed his eyes and stroked his bump gently in response. 

When he woke, it was to a pair of lips near his mouth and the faint scent of whiskey. He kissed back.

“Shit,” Ringo pulled away. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you—“

“No, no, c’mere,” George said, pulling him back in. He wrapped his arms around him as they shared a long, slow kiss. Baby’s kicks grew steady when Ringo smiled, and shifted to hold his face. 

The covers slipped between them, and Ringo broke away slightly to peer at the expanse of George’s lacy bosom. 

“Happy birthday,” George whispered, trying to push himself up as he kissed Ringo again. “I hope you’re hungry.”

Ringo seemed frozen despite his noises of “uh” and “mmmf”. George couldn’t blame him, the tops of his tits had ballooned over the lace trim of the cups. He must’ve looked an absolute _ treat. _

“L-luvie,” Ringo said, finding his voice at last. “I think ye should get some rest.”

George laughed. “It’s not  _ that _ late.”

“I’ll get you somethin comfortable,” Ringo mumbled as he pulled away. Oh Lord, he’d meant it. “That looks way too tight—”

“It’s for you,” George said, annoyed. He sat up with Ringo’s hand’s still in his. “This is what you wanted, ain’t it?”

“I…” 

George regretted his tone. Ringo’s looked totally worn. He was still staring at his tits, but something about the droop in his lips told George that pregnant birthday sex wasn’t on his mind right now. 

“Oh, Ritchie, I’m sorry. I—”

“No, it’s— it’s… Christ, you look lovely.”

Ringo was still tense, breathing quickly. He wanted him, George knew, from the way he squeezed his hand back. But the dim light outside their door was like a little beacon that prevented him from squeezing harder. 

“Georgie, have I been good?”

George blinked. “Good?”

“At… at takin care of ye,” now Ringo sounded like he was fighting tears. “Because if I’ve ever done anythin wrong, I didn’t mean to. Or if I ever hurt you…..”

“You’ve been nothin but wonderful to me,” George said, holding him tighter. “What did my parents say to you?”

“They didn’t say nothin, I just...” Ringo let out a gasp. A tear trickled out of his eye. “....sometimes I wonder if I’m really what you need.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? You’re  _ mine,”  _ George said, fighting not to cry as he wiped Ringo’s eye clean. “No one else made this but us.”

“I know, but…” he looked at the door. Just what the hell had Mum and Dad said? He was too old? He didn’t know shit? He was an abomination of a man for knocking their son up?

George went with the last one. “Ritchie, if they’re givin you freak talk for knocking me up  _ I _ should get it too.”

“What freak talk?” said Ringo. “They didn’t say nothin.”

“Double negative.”

“Oh God, George, don’t.”

“Ritchie, I _ love _ you, you know that right?” George said, scooting closer and wrapping his arms around him. “They can’t make me leave you.”

“They didn’t make me.”

“Then what did they say?” 

“That I should give you yer space.”

George instantly moved closer, eyes wide. 

“I’m not leavin you,” Ringo clarified, and with George’s sigh of relief Ringo moved closer as well, and cupped his face. “My God, I  _ love _ you.”

“Then what does that mean?”

“When you need to be alone, I’ll do it. And when you need me…”

“But I need you all the time,” George said, hearing his voice break. “You always give me plenty space anyway.”

Ringo stared. Then he chuckled. He laid a hand on George’s belly and patted it before leaning down to plant a kiss there. George sighed through the little sob that pushes itself from him. 

“Okay,” Ringo said, moving his hands to George’s shoulders. He stared at his tits. “As beautiful as you are, that looks kinda…. uhm....”

“I like it,” George said quickly. 

Ringo looked at him, unflinching. 

“I’ll help you with the bath.”

“Oh Lord, thank you.”

The bed was clean that night. When George woke up he was alone. 

He let out a gasp, but when he propped himself up he saw Ringo curled up on the floor right below him. He’d fallen out of bed. 

“Ritchie,” George called. _ “Ritchie.” _

Ringo didn’t stir, not even after George threw his pillow at him. And a bolster. And a blanket. So he scooted over and leaned out as far as he could to try and nudge him. It was fuckin difficult. The bump weighed a ton and even then he could barely see anything over his massive tits. His fingers barely reached Ringo’s ear. He leaned out further, his other hand gripping the sheets tightly, half his arse off the bed. 

And then the door swung open. George gasped again as his hand swung back to grab the headboard. 

“George?” said Mum, a plate and a bowl in her hands. “Oh, you’re up!”

Then she caught sight of Ringo on the floor. He looked like he’d gone to sleep right there with how the blanket was covering him.

“Is he alright?” 

“He fell off,” George started to stand. But before he knew it Mum had thrown the cutlery on the nightstand and settled him back in bed. Ringo woke up with a start. 

“WHA.”

“Oh hi Ritchie!” said Mum. 

“MUM,” George also shouted. “I was just gonna shake him—”

“It’s okay darlin, you jus stay right here,” and she tucked him in. “Plus, he’s awake now! I brought yer breakfast.”

Mum had made pancakes. And a soup that smelt so good, he almost never wanted to smell anything else. Ringo stepped out of the bathroom just as George stumbled out of bed to return the empty bowl and plate. 

“Oh no,” Ringo said, practically jumping across the bed and grabbing them from George’s hands. “Lemme!”

“I’m jus putin it back!”

“I’ll put it back fer ye!”

“Sweet,” George said, and pecked his cheek. 

But then things started getting ridiculous. One night he crawled to Ringo on all fours, to which Ringo screamed bloody murder and immediately laid him down on his back. Then he propped pillows everywhere when George opted to ride him instead. They ended up buttfucking. Then George was slicing a tomato to put in his sandwich, to which a hurried Dad rushed in and plucked the knife out of his hands. The sandwich came served to him in bed with the whole tomato sliced into millions of tiny bits. He was wiping up some tea he spilt on the counter when Mum jumped on him and took the rag from his hands. And then when he got up to join everyone for dinner, Ringo was at their bedroom door with a tray of his share on it. 

That was fucking  _ it.  _ George protested violently, with Ringo countering that Mum and Dad had said it’d be more comfy in bed. 

“Are you fuckin serious???” said George. “Where d’you think I’ve been the entire fuckin day??!”

“.......bed?”

_ “Right! _ I’m not fuckin helpless!”

“I never said you were helpless!”

_ “YOU DON’T HAVE TO SAY IT!” _

George then slammed the door in his face. But a few moments later his eyes were wet with horrid tears. Ringo had just wanted him to be comfortable while he ate, and he’d _ yelled _ at him. He opened the door desperately, only to find Dad coming down with the tray instead. 

“Is he mad at me?” he said quietly.

“He’s worried _ you’re  _ mad at  _ him,”  _ Dad replied.

* * *

When Ringo returned from his night stroll, Harold and Louise were snoring in the sofabed. It was later than he’d thought. He made for his bedroom, but as he passed the nursery, he realised the door was shut. He then stepped aside to look into his bedroom. George wasn’t in bed. 

His mouth went dry. 

“Damn,” Ringo said to himself.

“Ritchie?” George suddenly called. “That you?”

“Geo?” Excited chills shot up Ringo’s spine. And his erection. “Where’re you?”

“Behind you.” 

Ringo still knocked on the nursery door anyway, one hand clutching his erection. It stiffened and grew to the size of a fuckin ASTEROID when he caught sight of George’s EXTREMELY NAKED BODY posed seductively on the chaise lounge. 

“Uhhh.”

“Hi Ritchie,” George said, sounding so fuckin sweet that Ringo shat his pants again. “It’s been ages….. I missed ye.”

“Uhhhhhhhhhhhhh.”

“They’re so _ heavy,”  _ George whimpered, lifting his breasts up. And they were so large and swollen he struggled with it. AND THEY WERE LEAKING. “It hurts to squeeze.”

“Oh, dear, no,” Ringo said dumbly, as still as a stone. “That ain’t good.”

George noticed this. He shifted himself to kneel, and Ringo moved instinctively to help steady him. He was then swept into a passionate embrace in which tits the size of fuckin SOCCER BALLS pounded him right in his chest. Dark yellow ran down the front of his shirt. 

George then tilted Ringo’s chin up to meet his mouth, slightly open and waiting. But Ringo was so overwhelmed by his beauty that he couldn’t move at all. The wetness reached down to his trousers. 

George sighed. Ringo blinked rapidly as his erection stiffened. He tried to push it back down, but now it was pressing stiffly against George’s bump. 

“Ritchie,” George began. “I’m sorry I yelled. I didn’t mean to be so cross….”

Oh. OH. Ringo  _ desperately  _ tried to push his cock back down. “....okay…”

“You know I’m _madly_ in love with you, don’t you Ritchie?” AND GEORGE PRESSED ON HIS COCK. All the volcanoes in England erupted. Don't correct me.

“I….” Ringo looked at George’s lips. They were as red as the bath roses and now he couldn’t feel his dick because all the love was mashed up in him. He pressed his hands to the bump, and George leaned against him just so. Oh, god, was this really his life? 

“I love you too,” said Ringo. “I always will.”

George closed the gap between their mouths, softly. Oh thank goodness it was gonna be tender and slow. His heart just wouldn’t stand the fast and furious right now, it  _ wouldn’t.  _

Ringo let go so George could shift himself into a more comfortable position, his back against the cushion of the backrest. Ringo then lay into his usual position on George’s thighs, but he immediately shot right back up. 

George turned worriedly to look at him. 

“No, I’m jus—” Ringo then stripped off all his clothes. 

“Oh,” George nodded. And then he smiled. Naughtily. 

“Easier to wash,” Ringo got in George’s lap. The first thing he knew (and felt) was that the bump had indeed grown. But it seemed ten times more humongous than when he’d last remembered lying so close to it. But then again, that had been roughly three weeks ago. He stroked it in total awe. 

“Jesus  _ Christ.” _

“Maybe,” said George. “But I don’t really fancy bein the Virgin Mary.”

“You ain’t got the  _ virgin _ part, luvie.”

George laughed. Ringo did too, running his fingers slowly up the bump. Their laughter faded as Ringo made his way to the underside of George’s left breast, and as he circled the areola even more volcanoes exploded. Volcanoes of LOVE, bitch. 

George was holding his breath, starting to build up with moans. Their constant lovemaking had helped build his tolerance, but with every passing day he seemed to be dropping a teensy bit of it regardless. Not that any of them minded. 

Ringo put his thumb on George’s nipple and rubbed it once. George gave a moan. Ringo moved himself closer a little, touching as much of George as he 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and latched. 

Cheese immediately gushed into his mouth and down his throat. He sat up at once and threw up messily over the side of the lounge. A whole stream of thick semi-solid cheese splashed out of his mouth AND NOSE and onto the floor. George was saying something, he heard, hands on his shoulders, but he had no fuckin idea what he was fuckin sayin. The cheese was in his ears. His cheeks. HIS BRAIN. Ringo felt himself tearing up. When it was done and he wiped his eyes his tears were cheese. And he immediately blacked out.

Ringo awoke in a big bright bleary room where everything smelt like medicine. 

“Oh fuck,” he said. 

“He’s awake!” said a voice.

_ “Ritchie!” _ came another voice. Then someone appeared at his side. “Oh thank the Lord, we thought you’d fuckin died! You just fainted dead away in yer—”

“Now, now, let’s take a step back sir,” said an unfamiliar voice. 

“Fuck off, I’m checkin on him!”

“Sir, please calm down.”

_ “YOU CALM DOWN!” _

Then there was a wet noise. I shan’t go into any more detail but it was WET, okay. Ringo then recognised Louise, in her coat, standing over him. Everything smelt of cheese.

“Uhhhhhh."

“It’s alright Ritchie,” Louise said, moving around his bed to block his view of a few people standing at the end. She moved his fringe out of his eyes. “Do you know who I am?”

“I’m not fuckin concussed,” he said. Then he sharpened up. “I mean, yes I do, Mrs Harrison.”

She sighed, but not the cross sigh. “I don’t think it’s a very good idea for ye to keep drinkin that stuff.”

“What stuff?”

“The breastmilk.”

“But then what am I supposed to do with me life?”

“....what?”

“But what are we gonna do??” he corrected himself. 

“Simple. We go shopping.”

And then she winked at him. Ringo shat himself in the bed. Ringo now continued to shit himself every time he so much as smelt a whiff of ~~cheese~~ breastmilk. George bought a pump, for obvious reasons. And a new wardrobe full of looser shirts and sweaters and yes, BRAS, ye pervs. Ringo shat himself at those, too, because no matter what happened George couldn't stop his breasts from leaking like a broken tap. George had also bought a set of jasmine scented incense because now their bedroom smelt constantly of hot cheese and shit. 

George was also very hung up on how Ringo couldn't suck his tits anymore without ending up almost dead. The pump was efficient, but the next day he'd wake up sexually frustrated and with tits even _bigger_ than the ones he'd just milked last night. And even worse, George would come and Ringo would shit himself if they tried so much as to HUG each other. It was _SO_ Catch-22, so of course George turned to pleasuring himself. It was just that he couldn’t reach his cock over his bump. It was squashed under the expanse of Baby and his tits, which were now so fuckin enormous he required _two_ bras to support them. So he sat in front of the mirror and fondled those himself. Big mistake. The mirror was instantly splashed with jets of yellow milk. It dripped thickly in big fat drops. George stared as they trailed downwards and covered his reflection in their cream sheen, and cried. Ringo heard him and came running to comfort him, which then the floor was covered in a flood of milk, come, and shit. And tears. 

"I need the Hack," George said as Ringo bent knees-down in his own shit so he could try and hold him. "This needs to be _controlled."_

* * *

“We’re here for Doctor Hackerton,” said Louise. 

“Please take a seat,” Becky indicated the sofa behind them. “Doctor Hack is currently travelling here from his part-time job.”

Harold blinked. “I thought doctors made fairly good money?”

Becky shrugged. Harold did too, selecting a magazine before sitting down. 

George and Ringo did too, as Becky eyed them. George had added so many milk pads to his bra, he looked as if he had stuck two heads under his shirt. And Ringo had plugged his nostrils with tissues. He ran outside, took them out, took a DEEP breath, and came back in with them back inside. 

"What," George said, not liking Becky's gaze. 

"I'm not gonna ask," she said, resuming her task of filling out a ledger. 

Ten minutes later the Hack came in. On the back of a goat. 

"Uh," said Harold. 

"Hi, Beatles!" The Hack said, hopping off his goat and handing his leash to Becky. "Hope it wasn't a long wait. And other patients," he nodded at Louise and Harold.

"Oh, we're not here for check-ups," Louise said, calmly ignoring the barrel the Hack had on where clothes should be. She patted George's shoulder. "We're his parents."

The Hack made a surprised O. He looked at George, then Ringo, then Harold, still staring in shock at the sizzling firecracker in his hair. The Hack put it out with two fingers. 

"It's very nice to finally meet ya!" The Hack shook her hand. "Your son's handling pregnancy like a duck to water."

"Is that so?" she said, sounding very relieved. "Thank goodness then. Are we allowed to sit in with them?"

"If ya like—"  


"Actshelly," Ringo said. "We was hopun to discusk sumthig pryvat, Doc."

Louise and Harold stared at him.

"But after _that_ you can come in," said George. 

"Alright then," said Louise.

"What's so private we gotta wait outside?" Harold said, standing up. "We're his grandparents!"

The Hack blinked. 

"Of the baby, I meant."

"Dad," George sighed. _"Please,_ Dad."

Harold looked apprehensive, but with a shake of Louise's head at him he sat back down. The Hack nodded cheerily.

"Okay, great! Becky'll inform you when it's okay to come in."

"My son doesn't have a womb, ya know!"

"I know!" said the Hack. "Don't worry though!"

George and Ringo sat on the examination table, hand in hand. The Hack tossed a file onto his desk and then turned to face them. 

"I started producin in June," George said immediately. 

"I can tell, yes," the Hack said. "I heard about the, ah, circumstances."

It then occured to Ringo that their car was still in that phonebox downtown. Oh shit. He made a mental note to go get it ASAP. 

"Thing is, I started and haven't been able to stop. At _all._ I've been going with milk pad after milk pad and there's so MUCH of it. Seriously."

"How much of it?"

"I wake up in an _ocean_ of me own tits every day."

"Yes, that is a bit excessive. So you want it to stop?"

"Yeah! At least up till I............... give birth," George continued, his hand squeezing Ringo's tightly. "It's a, uhm, nice feeling, but I just can't take a nonstop 4 more months like this."

Ringo nodded. The Hack stared at his nose tissues, but if anything he put two and two together. 

"Okay. I'll give ya some pills to reduce lactation," he said. "But still, I must say that these drugs are fairly new. As in they might not be effective. So I also suggest you get a breast pump."

"Ohh," Ringo started, "We alredy hev—"

“And by the way, there's no need to worry," the Hack continued. "But I’ve made a little mistake bout the baby.”

They stared at the Hack. The tension in the room rose like the number of chapters. 

“Uh,” said Ringo.

“What d’you mean?” said George, holding his bump protectively. “W-what’s wrong with him??”

“Nothin, the baby’s healthy.” 

“Then wha’s th messtakhe??” Ringo asked, holding George protectively. 

“While on the train I looked at yer chart report and saw some things out of place, so I did some maths. And basically you don't have to put up with 4 more months of this cause you’re not _5_ months pregnant,” The Hack nodded. “You’re actually a good _7 and a half_ months in right now.” 

“Oh,” George smiled in relief. Ringo did too, placing his hand on the bump. Then George turned as pale as a sheet. “.....oh.”

“I mean, with the size of the bump, lactation at a supposed 4 months.... yeah. This also means your new due date’s sometime in September. More accurately, anytime from August 31st to September 6th.” 

“......holey  _ shit,” _ said Ringo. 

"But today's the last day of July!"  George chewed his lip. “Oh, Lord, I’m not ready for this,” he said, tears forming at his eyes. 

“It's still July though,” The Hack said cheerily. 

George hid his face in his palms and started sobbing. Ringo moved to pat his shoulders, but it didn’t seem to comfort him. In fact he sobbed even harder. 

“Lutvie, whassnatter?”

George mumbled a response. 

“Wha?”

“I’M GONNA DIE GIVIN BIRTH!” George shouted. _“HE’S GONNA COME OUT FROM DOWN THERE!”_

“Now that’s not entirely true,” the Hack said calmly. “In some cases the baby doesn’t turn head-down, so we can just—“

He shut up on the sight of Ringo quickly shaking his head at him. Ringo then ripped the tissues from his nose.

“No you won’t! You’re so incredibly strong,” Ringo rubbed his shoulders. “If it comes out from down there all we gotta do is pull it out, right?”

The Hack coughed. “Actually."

“Oh fuck, WHAT????"

“I mean, you’re  _ half _ -right,” the Hack said almost condescendingly, but he was a doctor so it was okay, “But he’s still gonna have to push.”

Ringo shat himself.

“A lot,” the Hack added. 

Harold then burst into the room, the door falling to the floor. He ran in with Louise hot on his trail. 

"DAD????" George said in confusion. 

"It's okay baby, I got ye!" He said, pitching himself over as if to scoop George up and carry him away. But he just held him. He stared right at the Hack. "What did you say to me boy??"

"What the _fuck's_ goin on?" Louise joined in, hands on her hips. Now she looked his barrel up and down. "Are you even a real doctor??"

"I graduated valedictorian at Sheffield, ma'am," the Hack nodded. "I was just explaining the various methods of childbirth to soothe your son's worries."

Louise and Harold looked at George, who was still teary. 

"He was," George whispered. 

"Oh," said Harold. "Okay Doctor, what method do ye suggest then?" 

"That depends on the baby actually. If he doesn't turn head-down by the due date we're gonna have to C-section him."

"What's a C-section?"

"We inject your son with numbness drugs that might not work and then cut him open."

"Oh, _dear,"_ Louise said, as if it were somehow worse than literally having a tiny human purged from your asshole. "What're the odds we'll have to do that??"

"Well, if you'd like to see the ultrasound...."

* * *

The sound of another ice-cream wrapper being torn turned Ringo around. 

"George."

George ignored him. 

"GEORGE."

George ignored him even harder, biting into the cone. Ringo couldn't find it in his heart to blame him, George had had enough. He made the odds zero _himself._ When the time came he'd resolved that he'd push Baby out from down there, because his head had already turned all the way down.

"Georgie, yer boyfriend's callin you," Harold said gently. George just bit into his ice-cream with a crunch. Ringo sighed—

_"George,"_ Louise said, deadly calm. George's head snapped up instantly. Silently, Louise motioned her head at Ringo, her arms crossed. "It's not nice to ignore your sweetheart."

George heaved himself up and walked over. He stood in front of Ringo, obscenely licking the ice-cream. Ringo pulled him into the kitchen for privacy. 

"Can't ya jus lemme eat in peace?"

"I will, I just wanna know if you're okay," Ringo said, hands on George's shoulders. He'd hug him, but he was sure this was his last pair of clean underwear. George glared at him as he pulled away to adjust the slipping wet rag back onto his nose. 

"Sorry," Ringo whispered, hands back on George. "But what _happened_ in there?"

"Didn't ya see? It's upside-down. It's ready."

"We're ready too!"

 _"You're_ ready, Ritchie," George said so hatefully Ringo recoiled a step back. "Now are ya gonna let me enjoy me last ice-cream or what?"

"Your _last????_ George, you're gonna live, okay?"

"Yeah, with no feeling in me lower half. Fuckin fantastic. I'd rather jus die."

"Natural birth doesn't mean you're gonna _die!_ What about Cynthia?"

"Cynthia wakes up to _John_ every day of her life," George swallowed the last bit of ice-cream. "You'd think she can't feel pain no more."

"But you wake up to _me_ every day of your life!"

"Well maybe this ain't about _you,_ you fuckin idiot!"

Both of them stepped back. With their hands over their mouths. Also Louise and Harold were spying on them from the kitchen doorway. With their hands over their mouths. George noticed them, but only sighed, running his hand down his face. And he cried, tears rolling silently from his eyes.

"Oh, luvie," Ringo stepped forwards, hands out. "It's okay, I'm here—"

_"No."_

Louise and Harold gasped. Ringo's heart exploded like a volcano. But this time it's bad. 

"Give me space."

George then stuck the cone up his arsehole and waddled out of the kitchen, past his shell-shocked parents. And Ringo was so shocked he barely noticed the wet rag at his feet. And that he'd shat himself again. 


	12. wholesome!

Ringo broke into a horrible sweat as he stripped off his shit-covered pants and threw them in the kitchen sink. Louise and Harold stared at his shit-covered arse. 

A long, uncomfortable silence passed.

Then Harold broke it. “You want to borrow a pair of mine?”

“.......yes, please.”

After a quick secret check with Louise’s help, they found George curled up in bed with a book. Louise then sent Ringo off to do some shopping, handing him a written list along with the keys to Harold’s car. 

“Actually, I’m gonna take my car.”

“Alright then. Don’t take too long now.”

“I won’t, Mrs Harrison.”

She sighed. “You can call me Louise, you know.”

“Okay Mrs Harrison,” Ringo said, trying hard to suppress his swirling emotions. He hitched up the belt he wore to hold up Harold’s borrowed trousers and left the flat. 

Ringo rode the bus downtown and was immediately relieved to see his poor Mini Cooper still stuck in the side of one of the phonebooths. He checked to make sure no one was looking, got in, and drove away.

The radio worked when he turned it on, but Ringo’s heart was beating so loud he barely heard a word of anything playing. The loud beating reached his head and then filled it with horrible thoughts. George was screaming as blood gushed from down there and coated the floor with dark red. He saw himself squeezing George’s hand as he pushed and pushed and PUSHED but then failed to breathe. The Hack with red gloves, delivering a crying baby boy from an unnaturally still George. Ringo then fumbled for the compartment where he kept his whiskey, and hit the curb heavily. His head smacked the steering wheel and changed the scene. The Hack now delivered an unnaturally still, red-blue baby boy from a howling George. Ringo screamed himself. Also the whiskey compartment was empty. Ringo shut it up and sped up away from the route to the market.

He pulled into the Kenwood driveway with a screech he himself could barely hear. With ragged breaths he fell out of the car and crawled up the front lawn. He bounced his fist up and down on the doorbell, a hand pressed against his mouth. 

Then he heard the patter of little feet. 

“Who there?”

Oh god, not _Julian. Anyone_ but. He couldn’t see Ringo like this. 

“Helloooooo?” said Julian. “Who there? I can’t open door for strangers.”

Ringo felt like throwing up. Inside his mind George was crying so much there was no sound coming from him anymore. He hugged his now flat stomach as he wept, his face in his knees. Ringo hugged him tight, but George was ignoring him. 

“Jules?” came John’s voice. “Who’s at the door?”

“I dunno.”

There was a silence, from which Ringo was sure John looked through the peephole and saw him vomiting into Cyn’s rose bushes. He threw the door open. 

_“Ritchie!”_ He said, rushing out to rub his back. Ringo was now kneeling on their front steps as he puked into the leaves. Julian stared at them both in horror, hands over his nose. 

“Julesy, don’t stare!” John instructed his son. Julian then moved his hands over his eyes. When Ringo wiped his mouth John pulled him to his feet and helped him inside Kenwood. Cynthia stood from the sofa in concern when she saw them and rushed over to help. They manoeuvred Ringo into an armchair where he sat panting.

“John, what happened?” Cynthia asked her husband as she felt Ringo’s forehead.

“I dunno, he jus showed up and sicked on the lawn!”

Julian came running in. “Unca Ringo okay??”

“Uncle Ringo’s sick,” John said, running to crack open a window. “Jules, you be a big boy and talk to him, kay? Mummy and I are gonna make tea really quick. Make sure he doesn’t go to sleep.”

“Okay!” Julian beamed at the responsibility and jumped into Ringo’s lap. “Hi Unca Ringo! You wanna know what I did today?”

“Y-yeah,” Ringo said weakly. 

Julian launched into a very detailed account of how on the last sunny day of July, Daddy had made him a cheese sandwich and then took him to the park and caught a whole bucket of snails with him. And how Daddy said how people in “Fronc” ate snails for food. And how he had once dared Unca Paul to eat ten in one minute, and how Unca Paul spent the whole night in the “Fronch” toilet taking a very big poop. John then ran back in with a tray of tea and Cyn with a wet towel, which she laid carefully on Ringo’s head. Oh shit, had he worried himself into a fever?? How was he supposed to go home like this????

“Now what’s got ye in such a frenzy?” John said, holding a teacup for him. “And why’re you alone? Where’s Geo?”

Ringo took it with shaky hands. John and Cyn and Jules stared at him. 

“At home.”

“Did something happen?” Cyn asked. 

“No,” the tea tasted so good that Ringo’s heart finally resumed its normal beat. “But… yeah. Kind of.”

John snapped his fingers. “Did you kill him?”

“John!” Cyn exclaimed. 

“It’s okay, we won’t tell.”

“Of course not,” Ringo groaned. “We… we had a fight.”

“Oh dear,” said Cyn. “About what?”

“So….. our doc double-checked George’s report this mornin, and it turns out he’s actually 7 and a half months preggers.”

John and Cyn looked at each other in surprise. 

“Well that explains a lot,” said Cyn.

“And Baby’s already turned upside-down.”

“What’s that mean?”

“He’s ready to be born,” said Cyn. “Does that mean the due date’s earlier now?”

Ringo nodded. “Last day of August.”

“Oh, congrats!” said John, completely missing the point. Cyn looked at him wearingly. “....what?”

Ringo groaned again. “And George wants to do it naturally.”

John turned to his wife in confusion. 

“It means it comes out of his….” Cyn motioned with one hand going down her front and past her skirt. 

“Ohhhh. And _that’s_ what ye fought ‘bout?”

“Kind of...” Ringo coughed. “George’s convinced he’s gonna die during it...”

John turned to his wife again. 

“There _is_ a chance,” she explained. “It’s very painful.”

“How painful?” asked Ringo.

“Imagine having…. a really bad bellyache. A really, really bad bellyache that’s moving a lot and churning. You get on the, ah, loo, but no matter how strongly you try to…. _push_ it,” she lifted Julian off Ringo’s lap. “It doesn’t come out.”

“But he did,” John said. 

“Of course,” said Cyn. “I finally gave a strong enough push.”

This rang through Ringo’s mind as he drove back home. A strong enough push. Surely George could do that, he was strong. He’d carried amps all around Hamburg. He tossed Julian up and caught him more easily than John ever could. Paul had sprained his ankle toppling off a stage once and George had piggybacked him all the way to Brian’s car. And who had carried Ringo to safety every time he blacked out? While _pregnant????_

When Ringo returned with the shopping George had locked their bedroom door. 

“Oh hey Ritchie,” said Harold. “I didn’t hear ye come back.”

“Why’s it locked?”

“I think he’s napping. Are you okay?” He said, stepping closer. “You’re so sweaty.”

“I might be havin a tiny fever,” Ringo replied. “But I think I’ll be fine—”

Harold booted the door down. And George, in bed, one hand around _A Spy in the House of Love_ and the other on his breast, screamed and threw the book at his father. He hit Ringo right on the nose instead. 

“FUCKING KNOCK, DAD!”

“George,” Harold said, trying to steady Ringo. “Ritchie’s not feelin well.”

“What?” 

“Ritchie’s got a fever. I know you’re feelin like shit right now, but _please_ at least let yer boyfriend share the bed.” And then he shoved Ringo in and closed the door on them. Ringo swore he heard a mutter of _“fuckin kids”_ as Harold’s footsteps disappeared.

Ringo bent to pick up the novel. George stared at him, anger softening and then fading into worry. Ringo let out a sigh that he’d been holding since he left. 

“Um, hi,” George said, moving up and opening his arms. But Ringo took a step back, already feeling the beginnings of a shit coming on in his arsehole. 

“Ritchie?”

“I— no, sorry. I borrowed these pants from yer dad.”

“I’m not leaking anymore.”

Ringo blinked. 

“....you’re not?”

“No,” George adjusted his bra a little. “They still feel sensitive though.”

Ringo leapt on him with a hug, being careful not to bump his chest or bump. His hands rested at the back of George’s neck, and he smelt so lovely Ringo wanted to cry. Even more so as George reached back with his hand in Ringo’s hair and kissed him gently along his jaw. Oh god, this was really his life. Ringo never wanted anything else. 

“I need you all the time too,” Ringo whispered, planting his own kiss to George’s cheek. “I never wanna be without you.”

“Ritchie.”

Ringo looked at him.

“If I really don’t make it, it’s okay to name Baby after me.”

“George....”

“Yeah, but if you still want somethin endin with Y that’s okay,” said George. “Though I don’t want him to get teased for havin somethin like ‘orgy’ in his name. Maybe if you keep the E at the end, but that probably would sound the same, wouldn’t it?”

“George, _no!”_ Ringo said, exasperated. “You’re gonna make it.”

George said nothing. He looked at his bump, fit to pop, and ran a nervous hand over the enlarged curve. “And I might not.”

Ringo didn’t want to think about the horrible thoughts from the car. The scariest parts were how real and bloody George had looked, the way his legs bent and eyes screwed up and the way his mouth opened to scream into the dark. He swallowed it down and shat it out. 

_“Why_ d’you think you’re gonna die?”

“All childbirth might end with death, don’t it?” George said so sadly it broke Ringo’s heart yet again. “And if it has to, I’d rather it be mine.”

“I…. I thought you wanted to have a family.”

“I do!”

“Then what’s got ye thinkin so dark?”

“I’m not strong enough.” 

“Yes you are,” Ringo said immediately. “You’ve carried amps, Jules, Paul and me, and that’s added on with _Baby!_ And Cyn said that all ye need to do is give one really strong push.”

“I know. That’s what I’m scared of,” George’s voice broke again. “What if I give the really strong push and it takes me out?”

Ringo hadn’t even considered this. Partially because the one woman he knew who’d done it had simply described it like taking a really big shit. 

“Alright,” he sighed. “If, and I say _if,_ you _do_ die giving birth to our child…”

George nodded, following. 

“I’ll name him Georgie. G-E-O-R-G-I-E. Jus like you.” 

“Thanks.”

“But if you _don’t,”_ Ringo added. “We go with our original plan.”

“Oh, okay,” George said, laying himself back down. Ringo followed suit, trying to stay as close to him as possible. “Wait, what’s the original plan again?”

“...somethin endin with Y?”

“Mmm.”

Ringo breathed deeply, better than he had for a while, as George leaned into his touch. He looked so peaceful closing his eyes that Ringo was reminded of a better thought. An infinitely better thought. 

"George?”

George opened his eyes. Oh god, he was doing this. 

“I love you," Ringo said, squeezing his hand with both of his. "I love you with all of my being. I know I ain’t much, but you really have all of me. We created somethin beautiful and I can't wait to share it with you." 

George smiled. He squeezed Ringo’s hands back. 

“I wish you were mine,” Ringo continued. His own voice started to break, too. “I want you to be mine.”

“I _am_ yours,” George whispered back. He turned to kiss him, but Ringo brought their entwined hands up.

“No,” he said, and looked right into his eyes. “I want you to be my husband.”

George froze. Ringo tried to smile, but he probably looked so jittery and nervous on the outside. But he had never been more sure of anything ever. 

“D’you mean it?” George whispered. 

“Yes.”

“You really mean it?” George’s eyes prickled and his belly felt warm against Ringo’s skin. “You really want me to marry you?”

 _“Yes,”_ Ringo kissed George’s knuckles. “Will you?”

Ringo wasn’t sure what he was expecting (YES) but one of them definitely wasn’t George full-on sobbing, turning his face and wetting his pillow. Oh fuck. Was he too late? Should he have asked sooner?? Was George so set on dying in childbirth he was _actually going to do it????_ **_Cha cha boom????????????_ **

Ringo felt the pain of a long turd exiting his arsehole. But then

“I love you too,” George sputtered, and followed it with a cry. Ringo leant to kiss him below his eyes. They held each other till George had gathered himself up. 

“Yes,” he said, kissing Ringo’s lips. _“Yes.”_

Ringo’s shit shot right back into his arse. And then he slumped over from his fever.

* * *

Though Ringo recovered quickly, and made it clear that he was fine with getting married any day, George insisted on doing it after Baby was born. Ringo then assured him he looked beautiful already. 

“I know,” George laughed. “But I want Baby to see.”

It was fitting that their own child should be their witness. Babies wouldn’t judge or call the police. He would also be the one person who truly understood that it had to be done. 

Plus, this seemed to cure George completely of his perhaps-death wish. He watched his diet and took his pills on time. He finished all his books. He couldn’t play his guitar properly but sang as he went about his day. He and Ringo made all their meals together (despite Louise and Harold’s perhaps-protests), joined at the hips and their lips. And for the first time ever he let Ringo take pregnancy pictures— most of them wholesome, all smiles with the bump highlighted in soft light— the not-wholesome ones Ringo kept with his condoms. 

Irony, tada. 

Ringo got better too. He shoved the remaining whiskey out the window. It took a whole day before he decided to donate the last 5 boxes to a homeless shelter. He picked up George’s medication for him. He did the food shopping and the baby shopping and decorated the nursery, hauling a newly-purchased wicker crib back home one day. He and George discussed their wedding plans in bed every night. They would hold it here in the flat, drape some roses around Baby’s crib, and decide what to wear later, if at all.

“I don’t know how I feel bout gettin married naked,” George confessed. “And you jus wanna see me boobs, don’t ye.”

Ringo grinned suggestively. “Uh-huh.” 

George laughed, but kept his grip on him. “Ritchie, Baby’s gonna be starin at us.”

“And he’s gonna be drinkin from those.”

“Yeah, but I don’t want his first memory of us to be where we’re naked at our wedding!”

George and Ringo decided to wear white with red roses. Ringo also proposed, with his gold ring with the diamonds and the onyx. It barely fit George’s swollen finger, so George kept it safe and cushioned in a little box of extra milk pads. 

Which didn’t last long. Because in the last week of August, the Hack ran out of the pills that stopped George’s leaky tits. 

“The factory that makes them are makin more,” the Hack said, as George cradled his poor tits in his arms. “On the bright side, Baby’s comin in a few days!”

But the days started dragging and Baby didn’t seem to be coming. The overflow from the pads spread darkly over all of George’s clothes. Previously he could’ve gone outside none the wiser if he was wrapped up thickly enough, but now he dared not even step outside the front door. Though he still sang, sadder songs now seeing how this meant another olfactory separation from Ringo. He spent most of his time in the tub, his head back, sitting in an ocean of breastmilk while the jasmine incense burnt to ashes. 

And Ringo was stuffing his nose and ass with toilet paper. As he passed their bedroom every night, he saw George lying alone in bed, Ringo’s now-damp pillow clutched to his chest.

 _“I’m_ gonna die,” Ringo cried to Paul when he came over for an early breakfast. “I miss him so much.”

“There, there,” Paul got up and hugged his side. “At least Baby’s gonna get born soon and this’ll be over.”

“No it won’t!!” Ringo shouted. “We still gotta feed him!”

“So?”

“I can’t even take the _smell_ of the milk. I shit me pants every time I smell it.”

“............is it milk or cheese? I thought it was cheese.”

“Same. I’m really confused….” Ringo’s face went flat on the the table.

“So… how’s it going with the in-laws?” Paul asked. 

“They’re not me in-laws.”

“Well you’re still above ground aren’t ye?” Paul laughed, clinking his glass to Ringo’s cup. “But really, how’s it going? Where’s Geo?”

“Still asleep,” Ringo groaned. “We can’t even sleep together anymore!”

“Well, you’d just shit the bed wouldn’t ye?”

“No. I meant _sleep_ in the same bed,” Ringo stirred his bowl of cornflakes. Paul had prepared them and they smelt a little sweeter than usual, which kind of brightened him a bit. “Its either I move somewhere else or I plug me nose and die in the night.”

Paul sighed sympathetically. “I’d take both over sleepin alone.”

Ringo wiped his face as he scooped some more cornflakes into his mouth. “Do you?”

“What, sleep alone? _No,”_ though Paul sighed. “Jus didn’t wanna make ye feel worse.”

Ringo shrugged. _Nothing_ could be worse than not turning around to see George’s sleeping face next to him. Except the odd painful churning in his stomach right now.

“Uh.”

“Y’know, I’m actually thinkin bout me and Jane doin somethin different. I, uh, John helped me pick a ring last week for her.”

“Uhhh.”

“Yeah, I know, it’s so early!” Paul continued. “She’s barely 21, but I dunno. I’m pretty sure I’m still gonna end up using it, y’know—”

 _“Paul,”_ Ringo said, clutching his stomach. _“What did you put in my cornflakes??”_

“What?” Paul blinked. “I put milk.”

“FROM WHERE???”

“Oh, from that thing!” Paul said, pointing to the now half-empty, bright YELLOW bottle of cheese that Ringo had somehow not noticed at the far end of the table. 

“Uh-oh.”

“Why? It expired?”

Ringo didn’t answer. He fainted face-first right into his bowl of cornflakes. Then he woke up in the same bleary room where everything smelt like medicine. 

“FUCKING SON OF A BITCH!” he heard someone yell.

“Goddamnit,” said a voice. “I’m sorry Ritchie, I didn’t know that was the breastmilk—”

“How could ye not know??” shouted the first voice. “Wasn’t yer own mum a midwife????”

“Yeah, so???????” said the first voice. A long silence set across the room. “...ohhhh, right.”

Ringo blinked a few times. The first person he recognised was Harold, pouring a glass of water next to his bed. Then Paul. Louise. And finally, George. He had one hand over his mouth and the other resting on his very large bump. 

Ringo blinked again. Jesus, how long had he been out? Or more accurately, how long had he gone without actually seeing George properly? He felt the desire to jump up and hug him, fuck it if he shat all over the floor. He could do it right now even; all he was smelt was medicine. And he missed George so fucking much. 

“Uh,” he said. 

“He’s awake,” Harold said. He offered him the glass of water, which Ringo downed in one gulp. 

“Oh fuck, Ritchie!” George started waddling over, but hesitated mid-way.

“Louise, Harold,” Paul nodded. “Whaddaya say we give em some space?”

Something hit Ringo in the face. It was a new pair of trousers. 

“Seeyou boys!” Louise smirked. She and her husband followed Paul out and the door was shut. Ringo removed the trousers from his face and frowned. George was still standing a good fuckin 6 feet away from him. 

_“George,”_ he breathed in relief. He opened his arms. “Luv, it smells like a swimmin pool, it’s fine—”

At this George jumped on him. Which wasn’t a very good idea because his heavily pregnant belly knocked Ringo flat on his back. 

“Oh shit, sorry,” said George, but put his arms around him. He couldn’t exactly reach, but you get what I mean. “Are you alright?”

“My head kinda hurts,” Ringo said, reaching to rub at it. He winced as he touched a bandage. _“Jesus,_ what happened?”

“When you blacked out you smashed the bowl to bits with yer face,” George sounded concerned yet also as if trying not to laugh. “A piece of it got lodged in there. They gave you two stitches but that’s it.”

Ringo blinked rapidly, trying to figure out the exact amount of bandage. 

“....and they had to change yer pants.”

Ringo then discovered that his naked dick was tenting the blanket.

“Oh, fuck.”

“Don’t worry, I took over for that one.”

“Oh, _fuck,”_ he hid his face in his hands. “Oh Geo…..I’m sorry….”

“What? Whaddaya mean?”

“Did I make you worried?”

“Course you did! Paul came running into me bath screaming you’d _died_ and I just bout lost me mind.”

Ringo was then very conscious of all the times he’d blacked out these past few crazy months. He’d blacked out even _more_ times than his pregnant soon-to-be husband. He could practically feel being lifted into the car backseat and being sped to the hospital even if he’d been out. 

George cupped Ringo’s face. Ringo startled at something cold and hard on George’s hand, but calmed down when he realised it was his ring. And then startled again.

“Oh god, your finger.”

“Didn’t wanna leave the flat without it,” said George. 

“Doesn’t that hurt?” Ringo removed George’s hand from his face and made to jostle it off. George’s previously thin fingers had become as thick as sausages. “I could give you another if anythin happened…”

“But you gave _this_ to me.”

“Luv, I’d give you millions of rings.” 

With one more tug the ring was finally loose. George thanked him and stretched his finger in relief, but didn’t quite meet his eyes. 

“I _would._ I missed you, Georgie,” Ringo said, giving the ring back. He held George’s hand and brought it to his lips. “Three whole days…. I missed you.”

“I missed you too,” George whispered. _“So_ much.”

The pool smell blazed a hundred times worse in the room. George drew away slightly to muffle his nose. But Ringo knew the smell wasn’t what teared up his eyes. He reached for George and put his arms around him.

Ringo realised he looked different again. His face was soft. His cheeks stood out, the bones buried deep underneath. And his hair was longer. His eyes were still twinkly, although tired with wrinkles beneath. Ringo gave those one last look before he leant in and kissed him. 

Baby was due tomorrow or the week after, and it showed so much. George’s bump was fit to burst, his hips were as wide as a street, his breasts so large both he and Ringo gasped when they brushed against his chest. 

“Oh my gosh.”

“No wonder it’s an ocean. I’m luggin two _Earths_ in here,” George very gingerly put his hands on them. Ringo immediately shoved down on his cock as George released a tiny moan just from that. 

“Well, I suppose it’s better,” George now noticed the huge new tent in the blanket. He gave a very not-wholesome grin. “Baby’s never gonna get hungry.”

“C—course not,” Ringo shook his head. “His dad is amazin.”

“You’re not so bad yourself,” George said. He put his hand on Ringo’s dick hand and scooted forward. His hair brushed Ringo’s shoulder. His bump bumped Ringo’s stomach. No prize for guessing what ELSE smacked into Ringo. Come on ya old fuck.

“George,” Ringo said before he completely lost his ability to speak, “I’m gonna die if I drink all that!”

But George swung his leg over Ringo’s hip anyway and sat right on his dick, which still managed to throb like the likes of a fucking EARTHQUAKE through layers of blankets and the extra-large joggers on George’s legs. He grinned as Ringo’s stunned eyes watched his fingers unbuttoning even more of his shirt. As he tossed it aside, Ringo then realised he was _fucked._

He remembered when Cyn was pregnant. Even under the smallest dresses and in the latest months one would have to look twice before realising her bump. Now his George, who’d always been a stick, _WAS HUGE._ The bump drove a good head-long distance between them. And his fuckin tits were basically half the size of the bump each, bulging in his bra. 

Wait, no— braS. A pink one was layered over a beige one covered with dark rings. George unclasped the pink one and threw it own with his shirt. 

“UhhHHHHHHHHH,” said Ringo’s arse. “Still gonna die if I drink that!”

“Who said anythin bout drinkin?” George’s breasts pushed right under Ringo’s chin. Thank goodness the pool smell of the room got even worse, because there was no other way that the smell of breastmilk wouldn’t have destroyed Ringo’s arse. He looked down sweatingly into George’s fuckin Mariana Trench. 

“I want you to fuck my tits.”

Ringo’s eyes WIDENED AND WIDENED AND WIDENED TO THE SIZE OF ASIA as he stared at the luscious, milky mounds of George with his mind sprouting dicks every which way. 

_HOW THE FUCK WAS THIS HIS LIFE._

“Ritchie?” George said after a while, patting his cheek. 

“Whuhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh?” 

“C’mon,” George laughed, but now he seemed a little nervous. “I’ve had you everywhere else.”

“No,” Ringo said, forgetting his own name as he reached to steady George. “It’s jus— uhhhhhhhhhh.” 

George noticed him staring at the bump. “I can take it.”

“No, that’s not… you wanna do it _here?”_ Ringo breathed a huge amount of pool. _“Now???”_

“I can strip again if ye like.”

“Uh, no, that’s okay. It’s just that I dunno how to fuck tits.”

“Lemme lie down, I’ll explain.”

Ringo then got off the bed. A cold rush of air hit his very erect cock. George stripped his pants off and laid down slowly on the rumpled blanket. At the nod of his head Ringo crawled on top of George, his cock resting on the bump. 

“No, come closer.”

“Me dick’s on ye already!”

“No, come up _here,”_ George indicated his bustline irritably. Or at least Ringo thought so by his voice. He couldn’t see George’s face. 

“Okay,” Ringo said as he pushed himself up on his feet, his dick tenting like a gun under his hospital gown. He T-posed for balance as he walked with George straddled underneath his legs, and

“Sorry boys, I think I dropped my purse in here...”

Ringo’s heart stopped. George turned in shock. Louise stared at them both, her hand on the door handle. 

“Uhhhhhhh,” said Ringo. “Hi, Louise?”

_“WHAT THE F—”_

* * *

George and Ringo were once again separated after they returned to Whaddon House. But first Ringo went as white as a sheet and as limp as one too. And oddly, it was _George_ that Mum couldn’t stop berating. 

“WHAT ABOUT YOUR _SON??”_ she pointed at his bulging belly. “ _God,_ Georgie! Don’t kill his father before he’s born!”

“Don’t worry, he’s got two.”

“IT’S NOT A JOKE!”

Paul didn’t like the awkward silence in the car as he drove them home. “What’s the matter?” He laughed. “Too much milk?”

George hissed at him.

“Don’t,” Ringo groaned through his surgical mask.

“Could you kindly step on it, Paul?” Dad asked calmly.

Ages after George had been wrestled into bed and Ringo on the lounge, Dad didn’t leave. He sat at George’s feet and read the backs of the books he’d thrown there. 

“They’re not very interesting,” George said quickly when Dad picked up his copy of _Lady Chatterley’s Lover._

“I know, I thought Connie was a bit of a….” Dad waved his hand in a circle. “Ritchie picked all these fer ya?”

“Some of them are mine.”

“Ah,” Dad tossed the book back. “Now what exactly happened in there?”

George let out a deep groan as Baby kicked him slowly from within, so he rubbed his bump slowly.

“We hadn’t seen each other for days.”

“Three.”

“Imagine not seeing Ma for three days.”

Dad pretended to reel in shock, but George decided to take what he could. He sighed, rubbing faster. “I just missed him.”

“Still quite dangerous, no?” Dad said, finding more books. “Nothin bad on you Georgie, but I’d say Ritchie’s just as beat up as you are from this.”

Baby’s kicks turned into painful ones. “How do we not get beat up from this then?”

“From what, yer baby? There’s no way,” said Dad. “Every kid grows up to be their own person. They’re just gonna find different ways to beat up their parents from the womb.”

George winced slightly as Baby kicked again. _Or was it????_

“Or just the parent carryin them,” Dad added. 

“Right,” George said, now clutching his stomach as the pain starting tensing. He glanced out to a dark window. “Oh, _fuck.”_

“Georgie, what’s wrong?”

George couldn't answer. His insides felt like they were being seized.

"George?" Dad asked, hands on his shoulders. "What’s it feel like?"

“I think he's comin."

Everything went by extremely fast. Dad yelled for Mum, who burst in and told him to take note of the contractions. Paul, who was still sticking around drinking tea, dashed downstairs to start the car. Dad frantically threw together an overnight bag from every conceivable thing in the nursery. And woke up Ringo. 

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN BABY’S COMIN _NOW??”_ George heard Ringo scream. 

“IT’S COMIN _RIGHT NOW!”_ Dad yelled. 

“I GOT THE CAR GOIN, LET’S _GO!”_ screeched Paul, running back into the flat. He scooped George up into a difficult bridal carry. 

“You’re gonna fuckin drop me!” George shouted. “Put me down! It stopped! _It stopped!”_

“Oh Jesus, that’s two minutes,” Mum said, checking her watch. “Don’t worry Georgie, we’ll have you down there in—”

“IT’S NOT AUGUST 31!” Ringo yelled. 

“IT’S AN _ESTIMATE,_ RITCHIE!” Dad yelled back. 

“FUCKING PUT ME DOWN!” George yelled. He threw himself out of Paul’s arms as he did so, barely landing on his two feet. Ringo, mask on, ran and steadied him in time. Everything went silent. Ringo put his shaky hand on the bump. “.......Geo?”

“It’s okay. False alarm,” George said, removing Ringo’s hand gently. “It stopped now, I swear.”

No one seemed to believe him. He heard them outside his bedroom door hours and hours after that. Then came August 31, but nothing happened. Then September 1. September 2. September 3. September 4. September 5. Still nothing happened on September 6, though George and Ringo had been dressed in their coats for hours. Mum and Dad were equally anxious, watching the same god damn channel on the telly the entire day. Shortly after dinner, John and Paul then showed up with whiskey and pudding. And Julian. 

"Oh, you're still preggers," John said instead of hi when George opened the door. 

"You're still wearin those god awful jeans," said George. John had clearly thrown them on in a hurry and had taken his son from his bed again. Julian was clutching bleary-eyed at his leg, dressed in polka-dot pyjamas. 

"Like _you_ look any better."

Paul sighed. "No contractions?"

"Not a one," George said, letting them in. "Not in the whole week."

Unexpectedly, Paul came forwards and hugged him. He'd clearly been instructed by Ringo, from the way he took care to not touch their chests together, but it's a comfort all the same. 

"Brian booked ya anywhere yet?" John asked. 

"Same place I went to when I went to the emergency room," said Ringo, making his way in. 

"Cool," said John. Then he stared at him. _"Emergency room???"_

"I, uh, hit me head," Ringo said quickly, and rushed to divide the pudding equally in the kitchen.

John turned to Paul. "Did you know about this?"

Paul simply shrugged and went to help Ringo. Meanwhile, Julian stared at George's bump. George didn't move, for Julian could've merely been sleepy. But he put his little hand out to it just the same. George smiled for a moment. 

“Unca Georgie?”

"Yeah?"

"Why is your belly so fat?" 

Oh. George wondered if he should lie. John had specified only _women_ in his explanation of pregnancy after all. 

“I have, uhm, someone inside me,” George said instead.

“But Unca Ringo’s in kitchen.”

“........................................................what?”

“Jules! Don’t bother Uncle Georgie!” John said immediately, rushing over to pick Julian up. “You wanna come help me pour some drinks?”

“But you said me not to do that.”

“I’ll teach you!” John said, grinning oh-so-innocently at George. George flipped him the bird. Dad increased the volume on the telly for the fifthteenth time since John and Paul arrived, so supper was scored with _Coronation Street_ blaring loudly in the background. Mum’s hand shook as she tried to drink her whiskey. Dad staved off, insisting that he might need to drive tonight. Ringo couldn’t drink (or remove his mask at the table). Julian was continually falling asleep against John. Paul was on his sixth bowl of pudding. 

And George knew that everyone was avoiding talking about the elephant in the room. The elephant was him.

"Have you picked out a name yet?" John asked after loudly clearing his throat again. 

“Harrison-Starkey,” Ringo replied.

“First name?” asked Paul. 

“Uh.”

“Definitely not Harry,” Dad chuckled. 

“Whoooooose name?” slurred Julian.

“The baby,” John said, ruffling his hair. Jules instantly went back to sleep. 

“We haven’t decided,” George said, looking at Ringo. Only his eyes were visible out of his mask, and he was staring down intently at his cup of tea. “We’ll do it after he’s born.”

“Fancy naming it after one of ye?” John snickered. Ringo then looked at him at last, but looked back down. George sought comfort with rubbing his bump. Baby didn’t move. 

“Maybe.”

“Hey Paul?” said Ringo, looking up again. “I forgot to pick up tea.”

Paul was slow to realise he’d been called. “Ye did?”

“Can you drive me there? It’ll be really quick.”

“Don’t worry Ritchie, I’ll go get it,” Louise said, standing up. “But I’m fairly sure I saw two more boxes in the cupboard—”

“It’s okay Mrs Harrison I’ll be right back you stay here now,” Ringo babbled. He practically shot out of his chair, grabbed Paul, and ran out of the flat. George clutched at a slow moving force in his bump that made itself known.

* * *

“If ye wanted tea you can have mine,” Paul said, unlocking his car. “I was gonna jus drink the whiskey.”

“Gear,” Ringo got into the passenger seat. “Can ye take me to Central Town?”

“Course. Asda?”

“Hackerton Medical Centre, actually.”

Paul stopped, hands on the wheel. “......you buy yer tea at a pharmacy?”

“Okay Paul, I didn’t actually forget the tea,” Ringo said, deadpan. “I need ye to do somethin for me.”

Shortly after, Ringo strode into the Hack’s clinic. Becky looked bored as usual, scribbling things into a pink pad at the counter.

“Hey Becky!”

“The Hack’s at his part-time job,” Becky scarcely looked up. “I don’t recall you having an appointment.”

“No, no, not at all,” Ringo laughed. “Actually, I came to see _you!”_

“Sure.”

“I’ve brought someone with me if that's okay,” he said. “Come on in!”

Paul then walked in through the doors, slicking his moptop back. Becky looked up slightly and then FROZE, and dropped her pen. Paul flashed her his winning smile as he put one hand on his hip and the other on the counter, right next to her empty hand.

“Ello love.”

“OH MY GOD!” Becky widened her mouth as if to start screaming, but simply swooned as she fainted and hit the floor. Paul and Ringo stared for a moment. 

“Huh,” Ringo said. “Looks like ye didn’t need to sweet-talk her after all.”

“Thank god. Jane would have me _arse,”_ said Paul. “Well, go get it then!”

Ringo dove behind the counter and Paul followed, lifting the limp Becky by the shoulders. Ringo scanned the alphabetical rows and rows of medicine in the glass cupboard, desperately wishing he had a name for what he was finding. 

“If you made a not-throw-up-at-milk pill what would ya call it?” he asked Paul.

“Uhhhhh, lactase??”

Ringo skimmed the L section of the medicine. It was at least ten rows long, each name longer than the last. He heard Becky groaning softly behind him, and Paul breaking into _All My Loving_ as he carefully sat her into a nearby chair. He then spotted something with the exact word on the box, plus a pink picture of a stomach. 

“Did ye get it?” Paul asked as they buckled themselves in his Aston Martin.

“Yeah! Take us home.”

“We gotta buy yer tea first,” Paul reminded. “And that’s the _last_ time I seduce people so you can steal shit, alright??”

“Thank ye _so_ much,” said Ringo. “And c’mon, you’re her favourite.”

“Remind me why ye couldn’t just ask her for them.”

“I’d have to go see the doctor first.”

“Then go see the doctor if you’re sick!”

“I’m _not_ sick! It’s just… I’m too in love with George,” Ringo sniffled. “That’s why I shit myself every time I smell his milk. I think I’m way too in _love_ with him.”

“I think that’s called lactose intolerant, actually.”

“Yeah, that’s the word!”

Ringo felt like he was on top of the world. He swallowed two pills after buying some water with his tea and got back in the car. 

“OKAY LET’S GO!” He yelled. “STEP ON IT!”

* * *

The flat was even more silent after Ringo and Paul had left, even with _Coronation Street_ still blaring. John had tried watching it alongside Mum and Dad, but soon dozed off. George felt like dozing off too, since Baby already had. 

“Julian, love?” Mum tried nudging the little boy. He was still sleeping in John’s chair, head on his shoulder. She picked him up easily, bringing him over to the sofa. She placed him on John’s knees, where he immediately fell off and landed with his head against George’s hip. 

Ringo and Paul returned after Cyn had phoned for the whereabouts of her husband and son. Paul stayed to help Ringo clean, though most of it was them laughing in the kitchen. George wanted desperately to know what they were saying just to feel fuckin _included,_ but Mum tucked him into bed. 

“You sure you don’t feel anythin?” she asked for the millionth time. 

“Do I _look_ like I feel somethin?” he looked away in anger. But she didn’t leave: she patted his hand and it made his heart ache. Within minutes George was sobbing again and practically in her lap. 

"Why isn't he gettin born yet? Is it my fault?"

"Not at all," she kissed his cheek. "Maybe he's just waitin for the right time."

"It's been a _week,_ Mum."

 _"You_ were late for nearly _two._ And even then you got born so late in the day I popped ye out and went right back to sleep."

George buried his face in her shoulder. She rubbed his back as she put her arms around him too, leaving her hands on the bump when she pulled away. He held his bump himself long after she'd left, and with Paul too, from the silence in the flat. George wanted Ringo but wasn't exactly sure where he was. Though Ringo wouldn't go to bed without shouting goodnight from down the hall and blowing at least a few air kisses at him. 

George went in himself. The nursery and the chaise lounge were dark and empty because Dad had stuffed most of the things in the unused overnight bag. And because Ringo was somewhere else. Had he left again? Took it upon himself to drive Paul home? There was no way Ringo would try to get out of this _now,_ right?? 

It was impossible, and yet his mind refused to shut up on it. Ringo had painted the entire nursery with red and purple. But had he told Elsie? Ringo had taken care of every mood swing and little pain that George screamed at him about. But hadn’t he done the same for him? George had his ring in a milk pad box. And then realised with a jolt that he wasn’t sure if he’d already tossed it with how much he’d been using them. 

George curled his fists around the rim of the crib, trying to fuckin STOP. It didn’t work. His brain made the familiar dark room where he’s held down by masked faces as he’s trying to push, and when he finally does he shoots right through his body and up into the ceiling. Ringo screams from down below, but George can’t get to him. In another one his eyes are barely open and his ears are ringing, but Ringo has his face in his hands and the Hack (oh shit) has their dead baby. And in another one where he floats and hits the ceiling, their baby is a _goat._ Ringo screeches in terror.

But this time he’s _back_ in his body, still pushing painfully. Ringo’s nowhere to be seen. George screams for him, but he doesn’t come. When he’s done laying a fussing baby boy back in his crib he opens all the milk pad boxes he can find, and there’s no ring. Like it never existed. 

He began to cry. _Really_ cry. He should be looking for his fuckin engagement ring. Why didn’t his fuckin fiancé tell his own parents he was gonna be a dad when he’d already told both of HIS? Did Ringo even care anymore??? Was the separation so good he actually wanted to—

George came in his pants with a shriek. Someone had hugged him from behind, and their arms were _directly_ on his nipples. 

“Oh, shit,” Ringo moved his arms to wrap around the top of the bump. “Sorry.”

Ringo had no mask on. 

“What the fuck are you doin??” George almost shrieked again. He spun himself out of Ringo’s arms, but Ringo seemed perfectly alright. And there was no shitty smell whatsoever. AND RINGO WAS SMILING. 

“Don’t ruin yer pants,” George said, backing into the crib. 

“No! I’m not lacrant intolorose any more!” Ringo opened his arms. “Me and Paul stole some pills from the Hack and now I’m all good!”

“You’re not…. not….. _what?”_

Ringo ripped off his pants. Those and his arse were so shockingly clean George let go of the crib at long last. 

“I took the pills and drank two whole bottles of yer milk in the kitchen to test it,” Ringo said, opening his arms to George. “And I _survived!_ We don’t have to be apart ever again!”

George stared at him. His own arms lowered to the bottom of the bump to hold it. And he started laughing. Ringo followed nervously.

“You made Paul drive ya all the way into town so you could steal stuff to smell milk?”

 _“Duh,”_ Ringo opened wider. “Now _please_ lemme kiss you before I lose me mind.”

There you go, you fucking pricks. 

They kissed. Ringo’s dick was hard as shit when it pressed into George’s swollen mid-section, but his mouth said the exact opposite. He kissed George so softly, lovingly, running his thumbs across his cheeks. He wasn’t going anywhere. What on earth had made George believe that this man would ever run away from him????

Ringo looked surprised when George pulled away. 

“I…” George said, looking at his bump. Then his hands on Ringo’s forearms. The words jumbled themselves in his brain.

“You okay?” Ringo asked, clasping cold hands around George’s forearms in response. “What’s the matter?”

Ringo had drunk the milk from the fridge, and his breath smelt painfully, ACTUALLY painfully sweet. Oh God, was this really the horrid liquid he'd been making inside him?? He shivered, and added on with Ringo's rings, leaving coldness on his arms. 

“I’m not sure where me— the ring is,” George whispered. “I put it in a milk pad box, and I’m not sure where _that_ is.”

“Oh,” Ringo relaxed at this. “Don’t worry, we’ll look for it. Or you want it now?”

“Um, I wanna talk to ye first.”

“Okay then,” Ringo guided him by the hands to the chaise lounge. George nearly stripped in reflex, but caught himself. He tried to smile at how Ringo fussed over settling him in comfortably, but he couldn’t. He clutched his stomach tightly.

“What’s on yer mind?” Ringo asked gently, reaching for George’s hand. Fuckin shit. How was this _his_ life? 

“Ritchie?” George started. “Ye love me, right?”

“Of course I do!”

“Would ye still love me even if I’d never gotten pregnant?”

“Of course??” Ringo looked at him in confusion. “I loved you when I met you. Why’re you suddenly askin that?”

He looked worried. George’s mind flashed moment after moment of him and Ringo in unmistakable love, working against him. Ringo holding him at night, kissing him, enduring sneaking in and out for Hamburg nights. And now he inched closer, their hands still together. 

“I love you, George,” he says again. “Did I do somethin? What'd I do?”

“Did you actually tell Elsie about this?”

Ringo then froze, confirming George's fears. But he somehow felt a weight get off his back. He wished the same could be done for his chest. 

“I… completely forgot about that…..” Ringo said, though now he looked at the bump with his eyes wide. “Shit.”

“Aren't you worried?”

“Well…. course I am.”

“Are you ashamed of me? Us?”

 _“No!_ I really…. I _really_ just forgot.” 

“About tellin your parents you’re gonna be a dad?”

Ringo shrunk back. “I really did forget.”

“How could ye forget somethin like that??” George said, trying to stay calm. “I suppose ye didn’t tell em we were gettin married, either?”

“What would be the point?? It’s jus us.”

“....oh, right,” George snapped his fingers. “But _how’d_ you forget to tell them you _knocked me up???_ Or at least, 'hey Elsie hey Harry, I got Georgie pregnant so congrats you’re grandparents???'” 

“I can't never say _that!_ I'm scared!"

“Then _write_ it! Like _me,”_ George said savagely. “Because if ye haven’t noticed by now, _I’m way more fuckin scared than you!”_

Ringo immediately shut his mouth and drew away from him like he'd been slapped. George was more than aware of his own hot face and teary eyes again. He held his kneecaps tightly as Baby bulged over his thighs as he tried to FUCKING STOP, he was a grown man for GOD'S FUCKING SAKES. But probably unknowingly spending his last who-knows-whats on Earth before he tragically died from an impossible childbirth. 

Not that _that's_ gonna happen. OR IS IT???????????????????????

read the FUCKING tags!

"I'm... oh George, I'm sorry," Ringo said, crawling over. George barely registered any of this until Ringo had his arms around George— chest to chest. 

George let out a gasp. 

"I'm so sorry I didn't tell them," Ringo cried into his shoulder. "I swear it slipped me mind, cause I'm still in disbelief this is actually happening and it's not some dream, and my God, _you_ are jus everythin I ever wanted...."

The sweet smell of cheese filled the nursery, pumped it full and enough for thousands and thousands of unborn children. George let out another gasp as he felt himself leaking past his shirt— and onto Ringo. Ringo shut up again, and pulled away just enough to bend his head. He stared at the matching dark stains on them both as if trying to figure out what just happened. 

"Uhhhhh," said Ringo. The whole front of his shirt and George's were darkened through and through and smelt so strong George felt his own stomach churn.

"Stop starin at me tits!" he snapped. 

"I wasn't!"

"You're lucky I can't stand up, mister!"

"Well I'm _sorry_ I think you're beautiful!" Ringo yelled. He then stripped his shirt off and made for the door. "Sit tight, I'll get ye a new one."

"Bring the fuckin box!"

But as George stripped down, he didn't see how the hell the milk pads were going to work. His breasts were as heavy as the fucking _amps_ he once carried through Hamburg. Except now he was lugging them with his chest. Golden cheese— milk— _liquid_ was gushing out of his nipples like rain. They were so erect that the sensation curved him in and turned him out, twist and shout, and he came with the force of a hurricane in his pants.

George thought of the cold chemical smell of the emergency room just last week, and Ringo and his thick lips and the kiss that left every bit of him feeling so incredibly warm. Checking if the door's locked. Sitting with Ringo and kissing him where his head was bandaged. 

And then George thought of Ringo’s dick in his cleavage. 

His arse practically tore open with how hard he came from that alone. It was so much he’d failed to realise that Ringo himself was back in the room, frozen in the lighted doorway with some new clothes and a whole boxes of milk pads. George jumped and clutched his bountiful chest as he noticed him at last, and came AGAIN.

“Oh my God, you’re—” Ringo cut himself off. “—you’re really heavy.”

 _Heavy_ was a understatement. George wondered if he’d resemble a cow if he got on all fours. Ringo looked around at the mess on the floor, expression unreadable in the dark. 

“Ritchie,” George whispered. 

“I’m here. Let’s get ye cleaned up, shall we?”

“Ritchie, wait.”

“Yeah?”

George didn’t know what to say. He dared not imagine what they looked like right now. If he’d been so beautiful a week ago, there was no way he still was. He was covered in his own milk and come, had two head-sized breasts, and a little life deep in his ginormous belly. And yet Ringo’s concerned look gave him a glimmer of hope.

“You said you’re not… not lactose intolerant anymore?”

Ringo blinked in confusion. But then he understood and nodded. 

“Then _help_ me.” 

Ringo stared. George kept himself together, trying to breathe normally despite the heat. And then Ringo grinned. 

The clothes are tossed. George doesn’t see where. He could only hope they’re somewhere clean as Ringo held and kissed him, and lets George have his way as the soft touch of their lips never leave each other for a second. Heated breaths turned into smacking, and George’s shivers became full blown moans and cries.

Though Ringo was hard as SHIT, the foreplay was teasingly long. Ringo put his finger to where George’s bra was stretched against his cleavage and pulled, eyeing them, checking exactly what he was working with. They were full moons of their own, rounder than fruit and so BIG everything Ringo did chafed them. It was mercy when he reached slowly behind George and unfastened the clasp on his back. Even more so as Ringo knelt and took George’s soiled pants with him.

“Fuckin squeeze me already.”

“Where?” Ringo asked, his fingers running down George’s length.

_“Everywhere.”_

And he delivered. With one hand pumping his cock and the other cupping his bump, Ringo latched onto George’s breast as if scaling something. George came all over him as Ringo licked his nipple, and then lapped at the milk like a cat. Hurried breathing followed his relentless suckling, and George was basically a ruin of a person. 

Ringo was high. He was still on one knee, reaching up with his hands and messily fondling George’s breasts, but what I meant was that the sugar rush had obviously begun to kick in. It showed all over his face. His blue eyes grew wide and bright and his mouth and nose tip were slathered in thick gold. He too was covered in come, or milk, they were starting to bear striking resemblances to each other. His stomach was slashed with a new yellow scar, ridding all the faded ones from operations he’d survived. He kissed George again as he laid him down on the chaise lounge, slowly and longingly through the heat of the moment, and George understands at last the whole of Ringo’s love. 

“We okay?” he whispered. George could only nod through his gasps. 

Ringo nodded. “You, uh, still wanna marry me?” 

George nodded even quicker, and grabbed his hands again. Ringo was the one on fours tonight, his bum especially high in order not to lay down on the bump. He kissed up the curve of it as he kneaded George’s breasts, covering them both in that sheet of golden sheen. It cleared George’s mind, filling it with peace and surefire everything, _this_ is forever and ages to come. George thought of his vows as Ringo scaled him at long last, and mounted his cock in the hills of his breasts. The dark of red and purple are smothered in bright gold, and George vows to be the best husband as his mouth hits Ringo’s stomach and as his bum bounces on his bust. And thus he realised with another pleasure-filled cry that he’s never been more happy— and determined— to be alive.

* * *

They squeezed next to each other after they've both calmed, and the night is dark. Ringo doesn't say anything for ages but the sweet nothings he whispers into the crook of George's neck. He runs his hand over the bump.

"I love you," George said, when the urge to cry passed.

"I love you too," Ringo replied, and kissed him full on the lips. They don't part until George snickered that he needed to poop. 

"You wanna move to the bed after?" Ringo asked, stretching to let him out. "Your mum was right, it is rather crampy..."

"If you're there," George said, and he unlocked the door. He waddled into the bathroom, and sat himself comfortably on the seat. His stomach churned, but nothing came. He waited, waited, and Ringo knocked on the door as he tried to poop again.

"I'm movin to the bedroom," he announced, before leaving. The churning was getting stronger. George sighed as he took a deep breath in, held himself and POOPED. A wave of energy coursed through his whole being and a large spray hit his arse. He shuddered hard, hands coming down to his flat stomach—

George froze. His hands roamed over his stomach once more. 

It was gone. 

Shaking, and now panting, he peered down his open legs, past the mounds of his breasts, 

and in the toilet, connected to him with a fleshy cord, was a little dark head of hair. 

_"FUCK."_


	13. the harrison-starkey get together

George felt faint. He nearly would’ve if not for holding onto the toilet seat, the solid cord of flesh dangling out of his arsehole and the tiny HUMAN BEING in the toilet.

The cord smacked moistly and dripped blood against his legs as he stood up and thrust his hands in and fished Baby out. The first thing George noticed was his nose— a tiny version of the very same one he loved kissing. His heart melted on the spot. A tiny bubble blew out of Baby’s nostril right then, and popped. George snapped right back into reality. 

_“Ritchie!”_ he yelled, shoving the bathroom door and nearly tripping with the cord around his legs. “RINGOOOOOOOOOO!”

Then George felt a surge of pain from his stomach, and the feeling of something making its way down his insides. He pulled Baby tight to his chest and shuddered because he forgot all about his breasts. He bit down on his lip as he trudged his naked ass down the dark hall to their bedroom. 

“Georgie??” Ringo threw the door open. “What’s the matter??Are you alrigh— oh _God,_ what’s that?”

George opened his mouth to speak, but the room began to spin. His arms felt so weak. He clutched Baby tighter, and as he did so he felt the lights turn on behind him. 

“George?” came Dad’s sleepy voice. “What’s goin on?”

George opened his mouth to speak, and _moaned_ as something slimy slipped out of his arsehole. And Baby broke into a cry.

* * *

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN PAUL McCARTNEY WAS IN HERE????” The Hack yelled in complete and utter shock on the morning of September 7. “Oh my Godddddddddd, was John with him???????????”

Becky shook her head. The Hack shouted in frustration and buried his face in his hands. 

“BUT LOOK,” Becky shoved the pink pad in his face. “HE SIGNED THIS! PAUL SIGNED IT!”

“BUT I WANT THAT ONE,” The Hack whined, pointing to the newspaper picture of John that he had framed on his desk. “I WENT TO PART-TIME ONCE—”

“Oh don’t _worry,_ Robbie!” Becky said mockingly, “I’m sure you’ll meet him one day! Who knows!” The phone on the desk began to ring. “Now if you could loan me one of your picture frames?”

“Fourth drawer on the left,” The Hack groaned. He picked up the phone. “Hackerton Medical.”

“Is this Doctor Hackerton?”

“Speaking,” The Hack said. The voice sounded very familiar. “And you are?”

“I’m callin on behalf of George Harrison and Ringo Starr. They had their lil boy a few hours ago, an—”

There was a shriek. Then a loud clunk. The line went dead.

“What the fuck?” John said confusedly, holding the phone away from his face. “He hung up on me!” 

“I think he recognised you,” said Cyn. “You’re his favourite!”

“Doesn’t give him no excuse to not take me call!” John hung up. “Jesus, this is takin _forever_. Did you check on them?”

Cyn began to reply, but was interrupted by the ward door slamming right open. Paul tumbled out with Mr Harrison by the shoulders, the baby in his arms, and a very flustered nurse and doctor following suit.

“OH MY GOD!” Paul was yelling. He tugged at Mr Harrison’s shoulders from behind as they slammed into the wall. “CALM _DOWN,_ HAROLD!”

“YOU CAN’T TAKE AWAY MY GRANDSON!” Mr Harrison yelled at the doctor. He held the confused nurse between them like a guard. “YOU’LL HAVE TO GET THROUGH ME FIRST!”

“No sir! We just need to wash him!” said the nurse, terrified.

“....and run a couple tests,” added the doctor. 

“HE’S PERFECTLY FINE!”

“Harold, it’s _standard!”_ yelled Paul. “ALL babies gotta be checked!”

“That’s right! Now _please_ sir, if you’ll just hand him to me—”

The baby screeched a loud cry as he was tugged back and forth.

“HAROLD!” Mrs Harrison yelled from inside the ward. “STOP THAT RIGHT NOW! YOU’RE GONNA TEAR HIM APART!”

Mr Harrison then let go of the baby, who screamed even louder, and the nurse stumbled on her heels as she caught him. But soon she walked past John and Cyn and into a room with the doctor brushing off his coat as he followed her. John took her hand as they went to check on Paul and Mr Harrison, now leaning against the wall.

“It’s okay Harold, it’s okay,” Paul said as he patted Mr Harrison’s shoulder. Then he noticed John. “Did you call the doctor?”

“Yeah, but he fainted halfway…” John said, glancing inside the ward. George was lying in bed with his hand over his face. The still passed out Ringo in the bed next to him. “You’re gonna have to call him back.”

“Hi Louise,” Cyn said politely when Mrs Harrison looked her way. “You need some help?”

“Oh no, it’s fine,” Mrs Harrison set down a filled water jug on George’s bed tray. “Thanks for comin— oh, ya shouldn’t have!”

Cyn smiled as she placed the neatly wrapped stalks of pink roses in her hands. “It’s the least we could do!”

“Thank you. Is John with Julian?”

“Our babysitter came over as soon as we called,” she said, and took a look at George. He was asleep too, his forehead still wet with sweat. “Oh dear, I hope the labour wasn’t too hard?”

“Uh, actually…..” Mrs Harrison leaned in and whispered into Cyn’s ear. The air-con blew a full blast, and Ringo then startled awake. Everyone in the room jumped. 

“GEORGE!” He yelled, jumping out of bed and into George’s, but then froze. His hand touched George’s flat stomach. He then looked as if he might pass out again.

“Uh, congrats!” Paul said from the doorway.

Ringo blinked rapidly. He looked at Paul, John, and then Cyn, who had her arms out ready to steady him. And then he looked back at George. 

“It’s…. It wasn’t a dream?”

“You’re fathers now,” said Mrs Harrison with a nod. 

“Where is he?? _Baby???”_ Ringo said, still scanning George’s stomach as if somehow it was still there. “Is he okay????”

“The doctors are checking if he’s healthy,” Cyn said, helping Ringo off George so he didn’t crush his boobs. “He’ll be back soon.”

“Oh my god,” Ringo cried. He looked down at his boyfriend. “What bout George?”

“Geo’s okay too,” Paul added, despite the horrifyingly detailed account of events Paul had yelled at John over the phone. He’d been called by a panicked Mrs Harrison at nearly 5 in the morning, and when he had gotten there it was fuckin terrible. Ringo had blacked out on the floor with milk sugar frothing from his mouth and George was covered in blood, poop and tears with the baby sleeping in his lap. George had to hold up his umbilical cord so he could sit in the car, and at one point started recoiling it as if ready to pull Baby back inside. But when they had cut it he’d gone right to sleep. And then John and Cyn arrived. And THIS was now happening. Is this confusing yet? 

Ringo hung limply over George. Mrs Harrison put her hand on her son’s shoulder.

“Don’t worry, he’s only asleep.”

“I can’t believe I wasn’t there.”

“You were,” said Mr Harrison. 

“I can’t believe I BLACKED OUT **_AGAIN!”_ ** Ringo shouted. _“RIGHT WHEN HE NEEDED ME MOST!”_

“Oh, Ritchie,” John entered the room and put his hand on Ringo’s shoulder. “Don’t blame yerself, yer boy’s out and Geo’s okay—”

“NO HE WASN’T!” Ringo yelled into John’s chest. “THERE WAS THIS _THING,_ ALL LONG AND SHITTY AND IT WAS HANGIN FROM HIS ARSE AND TO THE BABY AND THERE WAS **BLOOD** GOING DOWN HIS LEGS….”

“Ringo, that’s perfectly normal!” said Cyn. “He’d just given _birth!”_

“I KNOW! I JUST CAN’T BELIEVE ALL I DID WAS _FAINT!”_ Ringo then grabbed John and wailed into his shirt. “I’M SUCH A SHIT HUSBAND!!!!!!”

“No you’re not!” Cyn said as John put his arms around him, both completely oblivious to the fact that Ringo had just referred to himself as George’s husband. “Childbirth’s scary!”

“But George was _countin_ on me to help him through!”

“I thought he jus wanted to die,” said John. 

_“JOHN!”_ everyone exclaimed.

“Ringo, it’s _really_ okay,” Cyn tried as John looked at her pleadingly. “George didn’t have any labour pains.”

“Bull _shit,”_ Ringo sniffed. 

“Uh,” Paul started. “Did no one tell him—?”

Ringo then pulled away from John and stared. Mr and Mrs Harrison stood trying not to laugh. John and Cyn had their hands over their mouths. George lay peacefully sleeping. 

“What??” Ringo demanded, going over and holding George’s hand. _“Tell me what????”_

“George didn’t have any labour pains,” Mr Harrison said quickly.

“....because he _pooped_ Baby out,” Mrs Harrison finished and burst into laughter. 

Ringo’s eyes W I D E N E D E D E D E D E D E D E D E D E D E D E D. Bitch

“HE _WHAT???????”_

“He shat the baby out of his ass,” Paul said calmly, and then broke down into screaming laughter. John followed suit, and Cyn. Ringo looked at his dear George in horror. 

“Oh my god, is his ass okay???” Ringo asked.

“I— I dunno—” Paul wheezed. “He had a tail though.”

Ringo couldn’t laugh. He needed George, and he needed Baby. Things couldn’t continue until Baby came back to them. But he didn’t— he couldn’t— rush either of the two. He got into bed and held onto George for dear life, smushing his face into his soft boobs. Harold and Louise lingered by the door, waiting for the doctors to come back. John had left to fetch drinks. Paul and Cyn stayed on either side of the bed, pretending everything was calm. 

“Hey, Paul,” Ringo whispered. “How long did it take?”

“How long did what take?”

“Uh, the... the birth.”

“Oh, that I don’t know. It was out when I arrived, did I forget to tell ye?”

 _“What??_ Jesus!”

“But what I do know is that you were out for like…” Paul looked at his watch. “Three hours or so.”

Ringo started crying. He cryed so much he got George all _wet._ And awake. 

“Oh, shit,” said Louise.

“Whuh?” said George, his hands on Ringo’s head. “Muummm?”

“Oh my god, _Georgie!”_ Ringo continued sobbing into George’s massive boobs. _“We’re fuckin dads!!!”_

“.....who’s fuckin dad?” he slurred, and Harold chuckled. 

“NO! _US!”_ Ringo patted George’s belly but misaimed and got his right breast instead. “YOU SHAT BABY OUT OF YOUR ARSE!”

George scowled at him half-awakedly, blinking adverbly. Then his eyes WIDENED to WHATEVER IS BIGGER THAN ASIA, IDK IF ANYTHING IS ACTUALLY BIGGER THAN ASIA. BUT HIS EYES WIDENED. He sat right up and smacked Ringo in the nose with his titties. 

“Oh baby, it’s— he’s okay!” Louise said, running over. “The doctors are still checking if he’s totally healthy, but—”

George started howling. Cyn started grabbing tissues from the Kleenex box near the windowsill, but hesitated. Ringo was basically flooding the fuckin hospital bed with enough tears and bodily fluids to fill an ocean. It was so incredibly awkward even I the author am having trouble writing this. Anyway

Louise sighed. She motioned for Cyn and Paul and her husband to leave, giving the new parents their privacy. Which was a good thing because it was REAL AWKWARD seeing Ringo blubber into George’s bubbers. John returned with a tray just as they were all leaving. 

“Wot the fuck?” he protested, and then the door shut. Silence filled the room after a while, George turning to hold Ringo, too. George kept clutching at his flat stomach as if in mourning instead of a successful delivery, and tried still to comprehend the events of the fuckin last 24 hours. This was for real. FOR REAL. He and Ringo were forever tied by the tiny human whose presence ate at his entire self despite being in another room. He thought of the baby, a mashup of them both together, screaming his lungs out and throwing up and pooping all over them and the floor of the flat and on his guitar on Ringo’s drums. He thought of rocking that little thing to sleep, eyelids fluttering closed, singing lullabies to lull him to sleep. He thought of Baby growing his sharp teeth and sinking them into his breast. He thought of Baby bumping his nose on everything he tried to kiss because it was so large. 

So alive. He fell in love all over again.

* * *

It took a longer while for things to truly calm between them. They were a family. But still George held the bedsheets tightly in his fists and Ringo bit at his fingernails as they sat together waiting. George wanted to see their son more than anything, but his heart was terrified. Somehow this made him all the not more terrified when a smiling nurse strode into the ward with a blue bundle in her arms. 

“Mr Harrison-Starkey?” she asked. 

George and Ringo completely forgot their own names as she gave George the bundle. Baby was totally covered, only his nose was sticking right out of it. And George was continually speechless as he pulled back the blanket fold to reveal his little head. 

“Oh my God,” Ringo spoke finally. “He’s got your ears.”

The rest of the day was a blur. Another blushing nurse demonstrated how to give Baby a proper feed, with George crossing his legs tightly while she was in the room. But behold, it was calming. It still felt nice, but George could uncross his legs freely. Ringo gathered cushions for support and set them up under Baby as he suckled peacefully, eyes still shut. Baby lay asleep in his blanket as Uncle John and Uncle Paul were allowed in. Ringo began to sob again as John and Paul whooped and gushed, but quieter. 

John insisted on taking everyone out to dinner to celebrate, but that didn’t happen. Maybe it was Mum or Dad, Ringo or Cyn, George himself even, but they brought Baby home and had a simple dinner of soup and potatoes. Ringo consulted his Hack book and brought George some cheese sandwiches. He nibbled at them as Baby ate his own fill, his little mouth always puckered into a kiss.

Mum and Dad watched as Baby entered his crib for the very first time. Mum put her hand on George’s shoulder and Dad wiped a tear, but their snores came quick after that. George stayed in the nursery, not wanting to miss a second of this miraculous life. He arranged some soft toys near Baby’s arms. Ringo had bought a regular teddy, a Mickey Mouse, and a tiny plaid elephant with squishy tusks. If Baby squirmed in the night he could pick one to cuddle with. 

George paused. He checked again that Baby was fast asleep, neatly tucked in the little suit Mum had knitted for him, and carefully picked him up. Baby thankfully stayed asleep as George hugged him to his chest, and as his little head went against his shoulder. He breathed in deeply, and then finally allowed himself to cry. 

“I’m so glad you’re here,” he whispered, pressing his lips to Baby’s forehead. “I wish I had somethin better to say…. Fuck is a bad word, okay?”

Baby kept sleeping, his little chest rising and falling against George’s. It took a longer longer while for George to muster the courage to put Baby back in the crib. His arms felt so empty and wrong leaving without him. So:

Ringo panted and huffed as he got the crib through the bedroom door finally. 

“Okay, let me,” George said, handing him Baby as he took over, trying to lift it by the bars. Ringo ended up having to set down their son in their bed as he ran over to lift the other side of the bars. But even after the crib was next to their bed, George was still holding Baby. 

“Amazing,” Ringo said as they sat on their bed. “Sleepin through that kinda racket.”

“Jus like you,” George teased. 

“Even more amazing,” Ringo added, and ran his finger down the curve of Baby’s ear. Then he leaned over and kissed George’s forehead. “Thank you.”

“Hm?”

“For him,” Ringo said, on the brink of another cry. “For this life.”

George smiled at him. But Ringo started crying, and couldn’t stop. George tucked Baby in with Mickey and then knelt in front of Ringo. 

“Oh God, George, I’m sorry,” said Ringo. “I’m so _sorry.”_

George put his arms around him. His breasts were finally soft enough to let their chests touch. In fact he made Ringo gasp, but other things were more important right now. 

“What d’you mean?”

“I… I’m sorry I’m such a… a fainter.”

“Oh, Ritchie, ye can’t help that.”

“But I just wanted to _protect_ you,” Ringo said, tears falling. “When you needed me I _let you down._ I’d never forgive myself if something happened to you while I jus fainted like a fucking _coward.”_

“Darling, I’m okay,” George cupped his face and wiped his tears with his thumbs. “There’s nothin to blame ye for. Baby’s here and I’m here, and we’ll always be here. Forever and after that.”

Ringo sniffled. “You could’ve died.”

George then remembered that slimy thing that slipped out of his arsehole along with his sanity and his last stable breath of the night. His placenta, the nurse had explained. It had needed to get out too, and thank goodness it came out so quickly! But here he was. With a fiance and baby so cute there was no way he was ever leaving. 

“I’m here, Ritchie,” he said, and calmed Ringo with a kiss. “We’re all gonna be here.”

* * *

On the morning of September 8th Paul pulled into Kenwood for John, Cyn and Julian. Julian had on a blue bow tie and John’s gender reveal sapphire tiara.

“Ye didn’t tell me we were escortin royalty!” Paul pretended to go off at John. “I’d have brought me other carriage!”

“Shush, he found it under me bed.”

“Hi Unca Paul!” Julian said as he bagged the passenger seat before John could. “You like my crown?”

“Oh yes I do, yer highness! Where to today?”

Jules paused. He looked at his mum in the backseat. 

“Uncle George and Uncle Ringo are holding a party today, aren’t they?” she asked.

“Oh, yeah!” Jules nodded. “Who birthday?”

“Close,” said John, rolling down the window and fetching a cig. “But neither.”

“What’s neither?”

“Well Jules,” John started, “Uncle George and Uncle Ringo just had a baby together.”

“Really?” said Julian. “How?"

“Uncle George got pregnant.”

“Unca George a girl?”

“No, but… uh….” John blew out some more of his cigarette. “.....he just _did,_ okay?”

“Is it boy or girl?”

“A boy!” Cyn finished, and reached over to straighten his bow tie. “Just like you!”

“Oh, okay!” Julian then turned to the window to check his tiara. Paul started snickering.

“See how easy the truth is?”

“Shut the fuck up Macca.”

The Harrison-Starkey Get Together is a simple affair. If _simple_ was a whole ass buffet table for like 10 people. One of which was a newborn baby. 

“I thought you said you’d bring Jane,” George said to Paul as he took off his coat.

“Oh she’s comin, she jus got held up at the shoot,” he said. He immediately took to tickling Baby’s chin. He gurgled in response, through his nose.

“Well, he’s certainly Ringo’s,” Paul laughed. “How’re you doin?”

“I’ve never been happier.”

“Even when Ringo asked ye to marry him?”

George blinked. “Did I tell you that?”

“Nice ring.”

Oh, right. George smiled as he looked at his finger, the ring stubbornly shoved on the fourth. 

“I’ll ask: we are _not_ invited?”

“Thas right.”

Paul and George chuckled. Baby made more gurgly noises, half-asleep. His hands twitched to George’s chin, which made Paul chuckle even more.

“I’ll send flowers?”

“Roses, please,” George nodded. “And if you’ll let _me_ ask now….”

“Yeah?”

“Will you be his godfather?”

Paul’s mouth fell open. He looked at George in disbelief, and then at Baby, now sleeping soundly. “You want _me?”_

George nodded. He handed Baby over, to which Paul accepted with caution. George guided Paul’s left hand to under Baby’s head, which was quivering in excitement. And tears, which had formed at his eyes. 

“Aww, Macca.”

“No, no, of course I’ll do it!” Paul replied, blinking his tears away as he got a better grip on Baby. His thumb brushed Baby’s huge ear. “Ohh, he’s got yer ears!”

George gave Ringo a thumbs up from across the room. And then turned to pour himself a whiskey. Then several whiskeys later, and after a couple feeds, Ringo found George topless and asleep on the lounge. Baby was awake, though. He kept blinking as Ringo scooped him up and brought him to the living room, blue eyes to blue eyes. He gurgled loudly. John, in the distance, laughed.

“No, it’s jus meeeee,” Ringo cooed. “I’m also yer dada.”

Baby gurgled less loudly.

“Thank you,” said Ringo. 

John sent Julian off to find Cyn as he strode up past passed-out drunk Paul and up to Ringo. 

“A toast,” he said, handing Ringo a wine glass. ”Welcome to the club.”

“Didn’t know we had a club…”

“I’m the founder, you two are me new vices,” John and he clinked glasses. “Paul’s not allowed in, ever.”

“What if he knocks Jane up?”

“I’d like to see him try!” John and Ringo downed their glasses, and John wiped his mouth with a relish. “So what’s his name again?”

“Who?”

Baby made a squeal from under Ringo’s chin. Ringo hurriedly set his glass down and steadied his hold on him. 

“Him! Did I miss somethin?” John asked. “Cause you’ve jus been callin him _Baby_ this whole time.”

Ringo looked down at his son. “Baby.”

“Yeah Ritchie, that’s what it is. What’s his name?”

_“Baby.”_

Ringo relished in the confusion that appeared on John’s face. And if by some sort of father-son magic, Baby’s next gurgle sounded like a laugh.


	14. i would curse at you, but i wrote this instead

Baby kept drifting in and out of sleep through the day. When George and Ringo tried to cut the final dessert of cake he decided to wet his napkin and scream the whole house down. George also mistakenly thought he was hungry again, and sleepily flashed his boobs to everyone in the flat. Ringo brought Baby back to the changing table in the nursery, but then realised he hadn’t the faintest idea how to change the napkin. John had to run in and help out. He and Ringo emerged from the room mysteriously soaked when Baby was dry. George offered John a new change of clothes, but John shook his head and drank some more whiskey. The cake was then cut, but then Julian decided to feed Baby some of his share. Barely moments later Julian and the sofa was covered in vomit. 

“Jules, I know ye meant well,” George said gently to a sobbing Julian, “But don’t, okay? Baby’s stomach isn’t as strong as yours.”

“But— but— but it was only a little piece!”

“I know, but maybe you could wait until he’s older?”

Julian looked down at his feet in shame. George felt absolutely terrible then. Thankfully Cyn stepped in.

“Hey Jules, it’s okay! You didn’t _hurt_ Baby, did he Uncle Georgie?”

“No, not at all!”

Julian buried his face in Cyn’s hair and continued to cry.

“Ah, god,” George groaned. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright, sweetie, I’ve got you,” Cyn picked her son up and bounced him up and down in her arms slightly. “Don’t worry, go check on yours.”

It wasn’t until everyone left that George realised what he must’ve looked like while talking to Jules. He took a look in the mirror. His face, though soft and filled out from baby weight, was still the sharpest one he knew. His cheekbones were still gone, but his eyebrows were thicker than ever. He stepped back with mild alarm but he _still_ looked like he was angry. 

“D’you think I have a scary face?” He asked Ringo after they got in bed.

“Nooooo,” Ringo said, affectionately poking the flesh of George’s cheek. “Why?”

“I think I scared the shit out of Jules.”

Then Baby started crying from next to them. Ringo threw the blankets off and picked him out of his crib, cooing at him softly. George undressed and unclipped his bra as Ringo handed him over. 

“Ye don’t have a scary face,” Ringo said, planting a kiss to his head. “It’s jus yer eyebrows.”

“Oh?” George said, and took a breath as Baby latched onto his nipple. 

“When I met ye I thought _you_ wanted to beat _me_ up.”

“I was _admiring_ your playin!”

“And then ye smiled yer toothy smile at me and I damn near ran for it,” Ringo continued. “I was so surprised when ye kissed me.”

George felt himself grow warm. Maybe it was because of the lovely memory or because Baby was guzzling at his breast like he’d been starving, but he smiled. 

“There it is,” Ringo said, and kissed his lips. George pulled away to switch sides for Baby. 

“Oh hey, ye found it,” Ringo remarked. The ring on his left hand shone in the lamplight. 

“It was actually under one of my bras.”

“Ah,” said Ringo. He looked at it for a moment more before he took George’s hand in his. And slowly, he lifted it up to his lips and kissed his fingers. 

Baby made a sound as he put his tiny hands against George’s skin. And George thought he might pass out from all the love. 

“Ye look so beautiful,” Ringo said, lacing their fingers. “And uhm, speaking of surprise…”

“Yeah?”

Ringo opened his arms to take Baby for a burp. But then he sighed. 

“Yeah? Surprise?” George repeated, clipping himself back up. 

“It’s… ah, fuck, I should’ve asked you first.”

“Asked what?”

“I phoned me mum.”

George then remembered all about Elsie. “When?”

“Uh, after the cake accident,” Ringo patted Baby’s back faster. “I just remembered that I didn’t tell her anything bout this, so I phoned her….”

George rolled his eyes. 

“And… don’t freak out….”

“Sure.”

“She wants to come over.”

“Okay then.”

“...tomorrow.”

George wondered whether or not he should agree with Ringo or scream at him. Baby was Elsie’s first grandchild after all. It would be wrong not to inform her of his birth and let her see him. But then again, why TOMORROW?? He was in no condition to see anyone he didn’t feel especially close with. And then he panicked because this was his mother-in-law.

His arse hurt. And it had gotten BIGGER from shoving Baby out. The morning came and his pajama pants were so tight his stomach bulged out of it. He dug around the flat like a rabid mole all morning, Baby attached to his tit. Mum had to stop him from climbing the walls to reach the clothes boxes up there. 

“Listen Georgie,” she said, hands on both his shoulders. “This is _Ritchie’s_ mum we’re talkin bout. I doubt she’s gonna mind seeing you just as you are.”

George looked down at his humongous naked tits. The milk that had splashed its way onto his stomach. And Baby. 

“With a shirt on, of course.” said Mum.

“I can’t find one,” said George, his legs pressed tight together again. “And by the way, I’m not wearin a dress.”

“What?”

“I wouldn’t want to rip it,” he said quickly, though it was obviously the last reason in his mind. The whole point of Elsie’s visit was to let her see her grandson and to prove that George was _not_ , in fact, a woman. 

“Where’d ye get that idea?” asked Mum. 

“I dunno, in case ye wanted to lend me one of yours.”

“....do you?”

“I DONT KNOW,” George started crying. Baby started howling too, and milk dribbled everywhere. “I JUST WANT SOMETHIN THAT FITS!—”

“Hi Mama!” Ringo greeted his mother as she came into view at the train station. “How’re you?”

“I’m good! You—” then she caught sight of George behind Ringo. And the pram. But it was impossible to read her face. 

“Hello lads!” Harry called, lugging a day bag behind him. “Where is the little thing?”

George thanked God that _one_ of Ringo’s parents was happy to see Baby. And him, for the matter. He offered to help George push the pram so he could hold up his ‘toga’ properly. 

“It’s very Greek,” he complimented, even though it was obviously an old bedsheet he’d wrapped himself in. “Not cold, though?”

“Oh, no, I’m… padded,” George replied, very conscious of Elsie walking soundlessly between him and Ringo. “Nothing else would fit.”

Except of course, the bras. George had to double up for the trip, and four bra straps showed on his shoulders. For a society that looked down on women so much, they sure made a hell ton of available bra sizes. 

“Um, was yer trip okay?” Ringo asked as they made their way to the car. 

Elsie didn’t answer right away. She looked at George and Harry trying to fold the pram to fit in the car boot, and at George carrying poor grizzly Baby to his chest as her husband cranked at all the knobs and handles. 

“Ritchie,” she spoke. “Maybe you should give Harry a hand.” And then she was silent for the rest of the way home. 

The flat was silent when they got there. George had pleaded with his parents to help them do food shopping while they sorted Ringo’s out. He had no idea what would happen next if they came back while Elsie and Harry were still here, though. Had Ringo even told them that??

Baby broke into a cry when they entered. George excused himself quickly to the nursery and told Ringo to make tea. But even ages after he heard cups clinking and footsteps padding, Baby still wouldn’t quiet. He wasn’t hungry, and he was dry. George felt his forehead, but it was perfectly ok. He picked Baby up and paced the room, rubbing his back gently. 

Ringo then poked his head in. “Not workin?”

“No!”

“Bring him out, they wanna see.”

The next few minutes were a nightmare. Baby, red-faced and crying, was presented to his grandparents on the sofa. George and Ringo stood next to each other, silent, and waited. Waited. Waiting. Yknow what I mean.

George and Ringo held their breaths while Baby was in Elsie’s arms. He was still crying, but his mood seemed to better, sniffling at the sight of his gran. And Elsie seemed to soften, rubbing her thumb over his nose. 

Ringo smiled at that, and even more when Elsie pushed aside tufts of his hair to see his ears. But still she didn’t smile. Everytime she looked as if she were going to, she would move to another part of Baby’s face and build it up all over again. And then she passed him to Harry and picked up her cup.

“Hello!” Harry said, filling in the silence. “I’m yer step-grandpa!”

“That’s grandpa,” Ringo corrected. “And grandma—”

“Okay,” Elsie said finally, hands tight around her teacup. “You got your boyfriend _pregnant,_ had the _baby,_ and planned to _elope_ all in the span of 9 months.”

Ringo held onto George’s hand tightly. “What’s elope?” he whispered.

“Secretly married,” George whispered back. He now regretted wearing the ring right then. He twisted their hands so his ring wasn’t facing them.

“Well then it’s not a secret anymore, is it?” Ringo said to his mum. “We’re getting married jus for us.”

“Oh, but how?” Harry asked. 

“We’re just gonna hold it here and say our vows,” Ringo explained. “It’s… it’s not official or anything.”

Elsie looked at him with a pained look. 

“We’re still gonna do it.”

“I didn’t say you couldn’t,” Elsie took a sip of tea. “I just— why didn’t you tell me, Ritchie??”

“About what? Ye gonna have to be more specific, Mum.”

“Well, that George’s a woman for starters!”

“I’m not a woman,” George said, though his other hand was practically resting on the tops of his tits. “These only happened after the pregnancy!”

“Then _how_ did you get pregnant?”

“I really, really don’t know.” George shook his head. “I don’t have a womb.”

 _“Where_ has your son been for the last 9 months, then?”

George realised the Hack had never actually confirmed this. 

“....somewhere near my arse.”

“His stomach got big,” Ringo said. 

“He was in yer _stomach?”_ Harry looked at Baby again in wonder. “With all the food and the acids?”

“I mean, probably....” George tried to think of all the biology he knew of. “There was a placenta and a cord.”

Harry looked at his wife.

“...but you said you don’t have a womb.”

“I don’t.”

“George, it’s okay if you’re a woman.”

“I’m _not!”_

“Don’t blame him,” Ringo said, his voice starting to crack. “If ya think bout it, it’s actually _my_ fault! _I_ put that in him!”

Everyone was quiet. Even Baby.

“But look at him,” Ringo gestured at his son, visibly nervous with the flood that he was now sweating from his forehead. “He’s ours. No one else’s. And I love George, even if he _does_ turn into a woman.”

George snorted at this, but kept it quiet. The tension in the room grew higher than the number of times people have cried in this fucking fic. 

“Ritchie, I never said ye couldn’t marry him,” Elsie said, putting down her cup. “If that’s what you wanna do, then you have my blessing.”

“...then why have ye been so quiet?”

“I didn’t expect to have grandchildren,” Elsie said, and smiled at last. “It’s a wonderful surprise, but it’s still sinkin in.”

George and Ringo practically collapsed in relief. 

The next hour went much better. At one point Dad phoned saying he and Mum were going to stroll around London, so that was an even bigger relief. George didn’t know if he could take being around more people. He was beginning to get really tired. He wanted Baby to himself and a nap, but Baby was now in Ringo’s arms. That would do. He whispered to Ringo that he was going off. 

“Now?” Ringo said.

“I’m tired.”

Ringo looked at his parents, but still walked him to the bedroom and kissed him before walking back in. Harry had found a whiskey bottle either John or Paul had brought and was helping himself to it. 

“To the new baby!” he said with a toast. Ringo could’ve shat himself in RELIEF. 

“Such a lovely baby,” Elsie said, and clinked her cup with Harry’s glass. She set to pouring Ringo a glass, and Baby was toasted. 

“You need somewhere to sleep for the night?” Ringo said when Elsie went to the loo.

“No, we’ve got a night return trip,” said Harry. “I’m so glad ye told us.”

“I’m sorry I took so long…” Ringo settled Baby on his lap, who began to roam his little hands on the table. “I got scared. But that ain’t any reason to hide such a thing.” 

Harry smiled at him anyway. He clinked glasses with him again and turned his attention back to his grandson.

“My memory’s bad these days. What’s his name again?”

“Baby Harrison-Starkey.”

“Yeah, what’s his name?”

“Baby.”

Harry nodded. 

“No,” Ringo laughed. “His name is _Baby.”_

Harry looked at him, still smiling. And maybe trying not to laugh. He looked at Baby’s cute blue eyes blinking at him. 

“What bout when he grows up, ya gonna rename him Boy?”

“Well that’d be unnecessary,” Ringo ruffled Baby’s hair. “He’ll always be our Baby.”

* * *

Louise and Harold left in the first week of October. George had cried sending them off, but was completely fine by dinnertime, dancing around the kitchen in his toga as the record player spun. You’d never have guessed he’d just had a Baby a month before. 

Ringo was about to join in when the phone rang. 

“Hello?”

“Guess who’s 25.”

“Me?”

“Yeah but now it’s _me!”_ John sang. “My party’s at 5. Show up anytime before that and Jules will feed more cake to yer spawn.” And then he hung up. 

George seemed worried when Ringo told him of their invitation. The chaotic night of Paul’s party was probably back in his mind. 

“Don’t worry, luvie,” Ringo said, puting his arms around him. “Baby can come too!”

“But I dunno if _he's_ ready to go to a party,” said George. “How am I gonna feed Baby?”

“The loo?”

“What if we need to change him?”

“Cyn probably has extra napkins.”

“I’m sure Jules’ potty-trained already.”

“Okay, so we’ll bring our own.”

 _“Where_ do we change him?”

“The loo, of course! He could probably fit in the sink or somethin, right?” 

“Stop sayin that,” George snapped. “I’m not changin our Baby in a fucking sink.”

“Oh, uh, yeah, sorry,” Ringo sputtered uselessly. “Maybe we could ask Cyn if she still has her changin table, or even get that babysitter of hers—”

“I’m not going.”

“What?”

“We are not leaving our ONE MONTH OLD with a stranger,” George then stood up and ditched the dinner he made while dancing in the kitchen for the nursery. And he didn’t come to bed, though Baby’s crib was in their bedroom. Ringo walked in and saw him asleep on the lounge, Baby sleeping on his chest.

Then Ringo realised how bad he’d fuckin fucked up. 

George awoke in the middle of the night, screaming blue murder. He dashed out of the nursery and met a sleepy Ringo in the hallway. 

_“Baby!”_ George screamed. His toga had unravelled and his bosom was sticking out and leaking, but Ringo was too scared to stare. “WHERE THE HELL IS HE?”

“Don’t worry, I jus put him in bed,” Ringo said, looking back at the crib in their bedroom. “You’d gone to sleep, so—”

“WHAT THE FUCK,” George said, and the toga slipped off him completely. “DON’T FUCKING DO THAT!”

“Do what?? I jus put him back in his bed!”

“And ye couldn’t have shaken me and TOLD me that??”

“I didn’t want to wake you!”

“I’d rather you did instead of makin me think I _dropped_ Baby, you asshole!”

“I’m an asshole for makin sure my son sleeps comfortably???” Ringo retorted, but then Baby started crying. George and Ringo stood frozen where they were, neither backing down. Until Ringo turned back into the room and scooped Baby up. George chased after him like a madman, jumping onto him after he settled into bed with Baby in his arms.

“What the fuck are you doing?!?”

“I don’t see _you_ makin any milk, do you?”

Ringo couldn’t win that one. He kept his mouth shut and his back turned as a very naked George squirmed beside him nursing Baby. When he turned over again both Baby and George were fast asleep, exactly the same way they were on the lounge. 

The next morning John took Ringo turning down the invitation better than Ringo had thought. 

“Hey, I get it,” he said. “Jus don’t miss the next one!”

“Sorry John.”

“Ritchie, it’s _really_ fine. Club members gotta watch out for their spawns.”

Ringo laughed because he felt much better. But George didn’t react when Ringo told him, playing a game where Mickey Mouse booped a giggly Baby’s nose with his snout. Ringo cursed himself. Why the fuck had he even thought of leaving his own son with a teenager to go to a party?? What the actual fuck was wrong with him??? As he left to close the windows that were blowing open from the chilly wind he thought of what the fuck he should do.

The next night George was asleep on the lounge again. But Baby was awake, drumming his little hands on George’s collarbones. Mickey had fallen snout first on the floor. Ringo picked Baby and then Mickey up, and sat with George’s feet in his lap. 

Baby made a gurgling noise as Mickey came into view again. He swatted at his snout. 

“Aww, Mickey just wants to be friends,” Ringo said, and made Mickey stick his paw out. “Better him than old Donald, now, I promise.”

Baby then giggled as he grabbed Mickey’s paw in a happy handshake. 

“That’s right, shake paws!”

The next few days were confusing. Baby cried and squirmed like hell whenever George picked him up, even to nurse him. The whole floor of the flat was covered in white puddles. He thought maybe he smelled funny, or that Baby simply didn’t want to drink from his tits. He took a bath, filled a bottle with milk and then picked quiet Baby up from his crib, but on seeing him Baby started screaming loudly. 

Ringo ran into the nursery. “What’s the matter???” 

“I don’t know!” George said, on the brink of tears himself. Baby kept squirming as if trying to escape his arms. “He needs to eat, but he won’t!”

“Okay, okay,” Ringo said, and put his hands out. “Lemme hold him, you get the bottle!”

George put Baby into Ringo’s arms and then turned to grab the bottle. And suddenly the whole nursery was silent. He whirled around, and Ringo was staring at him with Baby just sniffling in his arms. 

“Oh, good,” said George. He walked over with the bottle. “Alright Baby, here you—”

Baby took one look at George and buried his face into Ringo’s chest. Ringo tried nudging him gently, but Baby didn’t turn. And when Ringo finally laid him on the changing table, he’d gone to sleep.

“Baby _hates_ me,” George cried on the phone to his parents when he thought Ringo was asleep. “He’s all up on Ritchie now and won’t even lemme _feed_ him!”

Ringo curled into a tighter ball. Baby was asleep on his belly with Mickey Mouse under his arm next to him, not making a sound. He couldn’t tell whether he’d made things better or worse. 

“But what did _I_ do??” George continued. “I’m the one who fuckin _cares_ enough to stay with our son, and now he hates me!”

“Excuse _meeeeeeeee???”_ Ringo said, sitting up in bed. “I cancelled right after!”

 _“FUCK_ YOU!” George screamed at his face. “How dare ya even _think_ of leavin him!”

“With a _babysitter!”_

George gave Ringo such a terrifying look Ringo swore he could've fallen off the bed. George dropped the phone back in the receiver, leaned to the side to check if Baby was still asleep, and then rolled over in the bed with his back to Ringo.

"George."

George ignored him. 

_"George,"_ Ringo said, crawling over and putting his hands on his shoulders. George still didn't respond. 

"We gotta talk about this. Please," Ringo pleaded. "I love you."

George still said nothing. Ringo felt tears welling in his own eyes, but then George turned around, _his_ eyes wet. 

"I'm sorry I said that," Ringo said. "It was really, really stupid and I wasn't thinkin."

"I know."

"Baby doesn't hate you," he shifted himself closer.

"I sure fucking hope so," said George. "After all, I _did_ carry him for a year, feed him from me own body and tear my asshole open bringing him here, and all ya did was boop his nose."

"There's no _way_ Baby hates you," Ringo said, missing the point. But he pressed a kiss to George's cheek, and everything seemed to be ok. "And even if he does, he still needs you."

"Because I'm food."

"Yeah, but also because you're his _dad,"_ Ringo kissed him again. "And I probably would've dropped Baby _already_ if ye weren't here."

"Don't say that, it'll actually happen!" George shushed. But then he put his face in the crook of Ringo's neck and smiled. 

* * *

Then November came!!!! Put your pitchfork down, I'm obviously not writing that.

But it got COLD. The Harrison-Starkeys bundled together to enjoy the last months of their year off. Brian had stopped by to check on them right after returning from his vacation. He'd brought his boyfriend, Eddie, and wrapped presents for Baby. 

"Brian, you're a star," George said, unwrapping a parcel containing little mittens and baby booties. 

"No, that's him," Brian replied, pointing to Ringo. He and Eddie were talking over tea, Baby sat between them in his high chair. "Damn, what's your son's name again?"

"Baby."

"Yeah, what's his name?"

"B-A-B-Y." 

Brian and Eddie left shortly after to catch the train, and after Baby started crying for food. George picked him up and disappeared into the nursery for a feed while Ringo went to wash the cutlery. He cleared the crumbs and emptied the tea, loaded the dishwasher and flipped it on. And off. And on and off. 

"Uh, Geo?" Ringo called.

"Yeah?"

"Dishwasher's not workin."

"Check the main switch!" 

Ringo got up to where the fuse box was. The dishwasher switch light was glowing bright. "Power's workin though!"

"Give it a kick or somethin!"

Ringo kicked the side of the machine. It started making a bubbling noise, but then it stopped short. 

"Ahh, fuck," he said. "Could ye get in here?"

He heard a few things moving before George came into the kitchen, holding his toga in place. He opened the dishwasher, checked that everything was alright, and then closed the door. He kicked the side of it, too, but it simply did the same thing. 

"Bloody thing."

"D'you think we gotta call someone?"

"No way, we can fix it ourselves," George then delivered a harder kick to the dishwasher. It burbled longer, but still stopped. It wasn't until a few turns of kicking and button-mashing later did the dishwasher sputter and then started washing their fucking dishes you piece of shit

"Take _that,_ ye junk!" Ringo said, and nearly kicked it again if George hadn't pulled his arms in time. He walked back calmly into the nursery while Ringo grabbed the mop and pail and closed the window that had blown open while they were kicking the dishwasher. Finally, everything was back to normal and they were a truly happy family!!!!!!!!!

Bitch

That night Baby wouldn’t stop wailing. He kicked Mickey to the bars of his crib. Ringo checked his napkin, but he was dry. George undressed and held him to his breast, but Baby wouldn’t eat. And he felt so warm that George’s heart began to speed up. 

“Oh God, I think he’s sick,” whispered George. “Feel his forehead.”

Ringo put his hand on Baby’s head. Baby screeched horribly, and Ringo drew back in shock. 

"Why the fuck is he so warm??"

"Don't shout," George hissed as he quickly cradled Baby closer. "It's okay, it's okay, we've got ye now—"

Baby's little chest was rising and falling rapidly, his nostrils flared. His mouth was open and closing with tiny coughs and noises, and thus stopped wailing so much. But now his eyes were barely open. George's eyes darted to the window he'd found open when he returned to the nursery, and his heart practically leapt into his throat. 

"It's alright, jus stay calm," said Ringo. 

"I am calm!"

"I was talkin to me," Ringo said, but then threw the nursery door open. "Get the coats, I'll drive."

Staying calm my ass as George burst into tears when they were halfway there, and Ringo nearly drove right into a tree with how much his hands were shaking. And through the front doors of the clinic before he slammed the brake and rushed in. 

"We're closed," Becky began to say, but then saw George, his teary face, and the bundle in his arms. She quickly directed them into the Hack's room, and then there was the longest hour ever. The Hack grew deadly serious as he unwrapped Baby from his coat and blanket. 

“It’s okay, it’s okay!” The Hack said when he was done with the check-up. He threw a tissue box at the crying dads. “It could just be a little cold. Nothing a few vitamins and hot soup can’t fix!”

George cried harder. He slammed his head at Baby’s side and wailed like one. 

“C—could _be??”_ said Ringo. 

“His chest is awfully stuffed,” The Hack said. “I’ll get Becky to schedule a second appointment next week. And then I can probably determine if it’s a just chill or pneumonia—”

George shot right up from his chair. _“PNEUMONIA????”_

“Pneumonia.”

“But that can’t happen, it _can’t,”_ George said, now looking as if he were pleading at the Hack’s feet. “He’s so little! He can’t catch somethin like that!”

“Uh, actually, babies are _much_ more susceptible to illnesses. Their immune systems literally just got made—” 

George buried his face in his hands and screamed. This seemed to shake Ringo back into himself. He went over and inspected Baby, a cool rag over his little head. His hands were on his chest, and he looked up at Ringo. He blinked, and Ringo saw then that Baby’s eyes— hell, the very same blue eyes, were teary. 

* * *

The Hack gave Baby a set of vitamins and meds to last the week, and stuck a sticker of a smiley face onto his arm as a treat. Even Becky was less grumpy scheduling their next appointment, smiling cheerfully at Baby. Baby gurgled, but with difficulty. Ringo called Louise and Harold when they got home, stating they needed their help. He offered to take Baby so George could stretch his arms, but George was beyond heartbroken. He held onto Baby for days, long after he’d fallen asleep, his hand constantly on the cooled patch on his head to see if it started getting too warm. 

He picked at his dinner and didn’t even look when Ringo arranged the peas into a heart. In the middle of one silent dinner he shot up and ran with his plate to the nursery. Louise went to check on him and found him on the lounge with his plate on his lap abandoned on the floor with Baby suckling his breast. 

“Did ye talk to him?” Harold asked when she returned. 

“Yes, but he didn’t talk to me,” she sighed. “He kept rocking Baby and mumbling ‘I’m a terrible dad’ under his breath.”

“No! _I’m_ the terrible one,” Ringo said before he ended up sobbing at the end of it. “I made him come over and help me….”

“Now Ritchie,” Harold patted his head. “There’s no such things as perfect parents. I ever tell you bout the time I dropped our Peter as a baby?”

“You what?....”

“You _WHAT?”_ said Louise. 

“Don’t worry, he landed on my boots. But the thing is, it’s okay. It’s all part of the plan.”

“What plan??"

“Learnin to be parents,” Harold smiled at him before he shoved him at the nursery door. “Now go learn."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [:))))))))](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=97kPLa3d7TE)


	15. happy week in the end

IT WAS HEARTBREAKING. OH GOD. I’M CRYING. FUCK YOU. Anyway

George jumped when Ringo entered, but on seeing it was him he let himself cry. Ringo sat next to him on the chaise lounge and put his arms around him. Baby was peacefully asleep in his arms, wrapped in a blanket. His fever patch was replaced with a cold handkerchief. 

“We’re out of patches,” George simply said. 

“I’ll get some more,” Ringo replied. “How’s he doin?”

Baby opened his mouth slightly, but it just looked like a yawn. And it was much, much more stable than he had been that terrible night. George held him closer. 

“Better,” he whispered. “I think.”

Ringo sat closer to him, brought his hand to his face and wiped his tears away. And to his great relief, George looked at him, and smiled. It was tiny, but George’s smile could power Ringo’s whole life. 

The rest of the week was long and short and long and short. Nobody in the flat slept very well because when Baby cried, all of them would hear. George gave out so much milk his boobs were nearly normal-sized. Ringo changed Baby and wrapped him up so often he was practically doing it in his sleep. Louise and Harold, though never complaining, also got up to take turns rocking Baby so his parents could return to bed quicker. 

But it was also a happy week in the end. Baby seemed to be eating more and been cured from fever. Though George made sure he was never without a blanket, Eppy’s mittens and his long woolen suit, which Louise had slaved through one sleepless night to make. Harold came back the night before the appointment with a large stack of board books, and one thick paperback with a picture of a fairy on it. 

“Once upon a time,” Ringo read as Baby sat fretfully on his high chair. “There were three little pigs.”

George made an oinking sound. Louise and Harold followed suit, pouring each other tea. 

“One day, they grew up, and their mother said—” Ringo cleared his throat and put on a very high-pitched voice— “‘You lot are all grown-ups now. It’s time for you to set out and build yer own houses.’”

George made a noisy oink of annoyance. Baby squealed in delight. 

“‘Don’t argue with me!’” Ringo squeaked. “‘Now go!’”

“The first little pig was a lazy little one,” Harold continued. “He didn’t like the idea of lifting all that material around, so he built a house out of the very first thing he found in the forest— straw.”

“So the first little pig stacked them all up and up until he had a little hut. At the end of the day he went in,” Ringo pushed a pea inside a mountain of mashed potato for Baby. “And then fell asleep.”

“But then—” Harold cued. “There was the hungry wolf.”

“Little pig, little pig,” Ringo said, deepening his voice and tickling Baby behind the ears. “Lemme come in.”

Baby squealed again. 

“Never, you bitch!” said Harold. 

_ “Harold!” _ said Louise. 

“Then I’ll _HUFF,”_ Ringo said, “AND I’LL _PUFF,_ AND I’LL BLOW YER HOUSE DOWN!” 

Harold raised his hands and shook like he was being blown by the wind. 

“The house of straw fell to the ground! The little pig went screaming all the way to his younger brother,” Ringo then motioned at Louise. “Who had built a house out of sticks.”

George then stuck a thin piece of carrot into the mashed potato. Baby clapped against his high chair in excitement. 

“The second little pig let his brother in and quickly closed the door,” said Louise. “But the wolf still showed up.”

““Little pigs, little pigs,” Ringo drawled. “LEMME COME IN!”

“Not by the hair of my chin!” Louise shot back. 

“Okay then!” Ringo puffed up his mouth and blew in her direction. Louise made a big show of rocking back with Harold. “The two little pigs then fled to their youngest brother, who had built a house out of bricks.”

George picked up a sugar cube, waved it in front of Baby, and then plopped it into his teacup. Baby watched with awe. 

“Now the third little pig was the hardworking one,” Ringo said. “His house was steadier than the woods. He let his brothers in and started a fire in the fireplace to keep them all warm.”

George leaned closer to Baby’s ears and oinked. And Baby, because fuck yeah, laughed. Yknow what I mean. 

“But then, the wolf still came!” Louise said dramatically, now totally into it. 

“LITTLE PIGS, LITTLE PIGS,” Ringo said as he stood up on his chair. “LEMME COME IN!”

“No,” George said coyly. 

“I’M GONNA EAT ALL OF YA!” Ringo then pressed a slobbery kiss to Baby’s cheek. “Startin with this one!”

And then he blew gently against Baby’s hair. He squealed until he was almost a pig himself. 

“Huh,” Ringo said, hands on his hips. “This house’s sturdier than I thought.”

AND GUESS WHAT? It really was. And when George bent to kiss Baby too, everything felt like paradise. 

Of course everything turned out wonderful, this is a  _ happy _ story. When they returned, the Hack gave Baby a clean bill of health and two smiley face stickers. This time it was Mum and Dad who cried while being sent off. 

“I’m so proud of you two,” Mum said, reaching up to ruffle George’s hair. “Very very proud.”

“Thanks Mum.”

"Take care now, Georgie,” Dad said after their hug. “Do say you’ll come for Christmas?”

George turned to look at Ringo holding Baby in the falling snow around them. Baby’s head was covered with a hat, which Ringo had to keep tugging over his ears. His ears. Ringo’s moptop was catching every snowflake for Baby. 

“Of course,” George smiled when he turned back to his parents. “There’s just something Ritchie and I gotta take care of first.”


	16. something

Ringo draped a bedsheet over himself like George’s, and wove himself a crown of the red roses Paul had sent. George made a wreath out of his share, and hung it in front of Baby’s crib. Baby babbled curiously at the red flowers through the bars, patting the roses. 

“Careful, Baby,” George said gently, kissing his hair. It made him giggle, so George eventually picked Baby up and kissed his head over and over. It was just on another level, knowing that he made this little creature right in his body, and it had a heart and only wanted  _ him _ and the happy kisses he was putting in his hair. 

“Jesus, what’s happened now?” Ringo said when he came back in and saw George in tears, cuddling Baby to his chest. “Is somethin wrong with Baby??”

“Nothin’s wrong,” George wiped his face clean. “I’m jus… i’m jus really happy right now.”

“Oh,” Ringo said, and he came round and put his arms around George. Baby’s blue eyes blinked on seeing his match, and he squealed into George’s bosom as he clutched the toga in his fists. 

Ringo laughed. “Baby wants a toga too?” 

They wrapped their son in a pink tea towel because they couldn’t find one that was either white or red. But somehow, it was perfect because pink is literally between white and red. See, it’s symbolism. Baby raised his little arms and legs in the air as he waved at them. 

“God, can he stay like this forever?” George said, admiring his handiwork (literally). “He’s so fuckin cute. We really made that.”

_ “You  _ made it, I only helped.”

“Yeah, but I couldn’t have done it without yer help!”

Ringo kissed George on the cheek, unable to stop his smiling. He broke away grumpily when it was time.

“What, you’ll get to kiss here,” George laughed, pointing to his lips. Ringo kept up the grumpy pretense until he and George were right in front of the crib, holding hands and facing each other.

And he stopped. This was just like the dream in the loo. Baby was here, and George was here. And he looked like Ringo’s wildest dream.

“I know I seem kinda nervous right now,” said Ringo. “But I  _ love _ you.”

“I know,” George said, holding his shaking hands tighter. Or was he holding on to stop the shaking of his own hands?? “I love you too.”

Ringo blinked to keep his tears out. George reached an equally shaky hand to wipe his face, cupping it gently as it left. 

“Okay then,” Ringo said, and steadied himself. They’d agreed to let him go first. He held George’s hands back in his. 

“You’re… you’re me whole world,” Ringo said. “I love you like how the stars keep hangin in the sky. They’re always there. And  _ I’ll _ always be there too. And I just wanna be right where  _ you _ are, for the rest of my life because I love you.”

It was George’s turn to blink back tears. Ringo raised their hands to chest level and stepped a little closer.

“You’re everything I ever wanted—”

Baby made a squeal from his crib.

“Of course, you too.”

George laughed. Ringo did too, holding George’s hands higher and kissing them until they widened with his arms and enveloped him in a hug. 

“Thank you for everything,” Ringo concluded into George’s shoulder, which was starting to grow wet. “I love you so, _ so _ much.”

Baby started laughing from his crib. 

“It’s true!” Ringo said with a fake whine. George laughed even harder. 

“I know, darling.”

“Tha’s good.”

Ringo then leaned in to kiss him, but George pulled away from him. 

“Ahem, my turn.”

“Oh, yeah, of course,” Ringo said quickly, and tried to resume their earlier position. But George held onto him tight. He took a deep breath, and shut his eyes. 

“Ritchie, when I first saw you I pulled Paul aside and told him with my whole heart, “I’m gonna marry that drummer.” And now here we are.”

Ringo chuckled. 

“I didn’t think it’d actually happen, but…” George pressed a big kiss to Ringo’s nose. 

“Hey!”

“It’s comin,” George assured him. “You’re everythin to me.”

Ringo didn’t try not cryin anymore. He pressed his face back into George’s shoulder, and smiled as George’s hands came up to run through his hair.

“I’m never gonna get over the amount of love ye gave to _ me,”  _ he said. “But the amount of love I have for _you_ is never ever going to end.  _ Ever. _ Even when we’re so old we can’t walk anymore.”

“Um.”

_ “If _ we can’t walk anymore,” George corrected himself, and then cupped Ringo’s face gently. “I love you, Ritchie. Always.”

Ringo could only look at him and smile through the happy tears. When they had wiped their faces on their togas and resumed hand-holding they were so messy. George’s eyes were red and Ringo’s crown had gone lopsided with his hair. But Baby was still looking at them. And he was STANDING UP with his little hands tight on the crib bars. George just about screamed when he saw. 

After some more happy crying and kisses to Baby’s head, the two disheveled dads took their places again for like the third time in their god damn toga wedding. Ringo then got out the new ring.

“You  _ bought  _ one for me?” George said in surprise as Ringo took the shiny silver ring from the purple box.

“Thought you’d fancy one of yer own.”

“That’s… that’s _ beautiful, _ Ritchie,” George looked at the one already on his finger. “But I love this one.”

“Now you can have both!” Ringo said. “That is, if you’ll take me for yer husband.”

“I do!”

Ringo took George’s other hand excitedly, the one without a ring. George then stuck his free hand right down into his cleavage.

“Uhhhh.”

“Not so fast,” he laughed nervously, and then at last pulled it out with a little RED box. COLOUR SYMBOLISM!!!!!!!

Ringo’s jaw dropped.  _ “Oh my god—” _

“Richard, do you take me to be  _ your _ husband?” and in the box was a sleek RED ring. It looked straight outta 2020. I  _ told  _ you George was a man before his time. 

“YES,” Ringo shouted, and then kissed George so passionately he dropped the silver ring into George’s cleavage. George made him cover his eyes as he stuck his hand in to get it out. 

“We’re married now, though,” Ringo said under his face full of toga. 

“Not until I put yer ring on!” 

Ringo sighed. His dick already started to MOVE EXCITEDLY. George wouldn’t let him into their bedroom as he took Baby in for a feed. And even when he was allowed in, George was still fully dressed as you can be in a sheet toga. But he had washed his face and even spread roses on the bed, and Ringo had finally seen why after he got in next to him:

His eyes fell on the lacy white straps peeking out on George’s shoulders. George raised his eyebrows. Because at that moment he noticed the skin-coloured straps on  _ Ringo’s _ shoulders.

“Wait a God damn minute,” George came closer and fingered the strap. “Is this —”

“Be nice and I’ll let you see em,” Ringo said teasingly. George then burst into laughter.

“What the hell are ye laughin at?? You literally wear lingerie all the time!”

“Because I have fuckin _ tits _ to hold up!” George spluttered. “Is that me bra??”

“Come on, you married me too,” Ringo huffed in defeat. He then undid the front of his toga and opened it to reveal George’s beige bra, dangling off of Ringo’s chest because he had nothing to fill it out. And it was so cute George leaned in and kissed him. 

“That’s a nice thought, Ritchie  _ Harrison-Starkey,”  _ he said with a relish, still on Ringo’s lips. “But lemme show you how it’s  _ really  _ done.”

Ringo barely had time to react to the kiss, the hyphenated last names, and basically everything in this fucking fic, when George UNDID HIS TOGA. Richhhard then forgot his own name. 

Not only was George wearing lingerie, it was _ BRIDAL _ lingerie. His breasts were bound and stretched tight in a piece of white silk that was EXTRAORDINARILY thin. Leading down from it was a curtain of even THINNER WHITE SILK that reached his hips, to which HE HAD LACY BRIDAL KNICKERS OH THE HUMANITY. 

They had wedding night sex. Titties were sucked. Don’t flip a shit, there  _ was _ a condom. The next day there were many more condoms after their flight on Brian’s jet landed in Barbados. Baby had been given a little cot with a hood by the nice hotel staff, and in it he slept peacefully as all babies should as his parents fucked each others brains out on the bed next to him.

WITH CONDOMS.

For now.

“We’re married,” Ringo sighed contentedly as he leaned in to rest his head on George’s chest and covered the sheets with milk. After an impromptu clean-up George quickly laid his head on Ringo’s chest. 

“Harrison-Starkey,” he replied. Ringo kissed his hair, and ran his hand through it as the gleam off his red ring lit up the room brighter than the sun.  Cha cha boom. 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [In the Middle of the Night](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24812851) by Anonymous 




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